Chapter 10

10

QUILLON

T he house was dead quiet, the absolute silence only disturbed by York's occasional muttering. I'd long since given up on making any sense of it. He sat hunched over his laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating his features etched with concentration. His fingers danced across the keyboard with a mathematician's precision, lost in the algorithms and equations or whatever it was. Advanced calculus, my ass.

We'd found a rhythm in the week since we'd arrived in Forestville. York was a late riser who liked to sleep in and take his time in the mornings. He usually didn't start work until eleven, but then he continued straight to dinner. I'd found out he ate breakfast late and skipped lunch, so I'd started making hearty, healthy breakfasts, like omelets stuffed with vegetables or fruit bowls with whole grains and Greek yogurt. He always cleared his plate and never forgot to thank me.

While he worked, I caught up on emails, stayed in touch with my boss and the FBI, and worked out in the gym room, which was outfitted with first-class equipment. Tomás had set up a treadmill and a crosstrainer as well as a complicated resistance training machine, which could deliver a full-body workout. I was in heaven.

York would take a break for dinner—which I would prepare while he watched me—then work for a few more hours before relaxing with his headphones on, listening to classical music while he stared into the distance. He often fell asleep in his chair, so I made sure to have blankets nearby. Whenever he napped in his chair, I slept on the couch. As soon as he retreated to his bedroom, I rolled out my sleeping mat and bag and installed myself in front of his door. Having a guest room was nice and all, but I was too far away from York, so that wasn't an option. I didn't want to let him out of my sight for more than an hour.

Ideally, I would've had a team so others could relieve me, but our decision to relocate to Forestville had made that impossible. It would mean more strangers and, thus, more risk. So it was just all me, all the time. The two FBI agents kept watch outside, patrolling the town and checking in with the sheriff for updates. He'd assigned one of his deputies to their team, lending them credence and providing them with a local who knew everyone and would notice out-of-towners.

I left York in the office and went to the kitchen, where he wouldn't overhear me. Not that he was that easily distracted once he was in the zone. Once he had flow . I smiled. I learned new things every day with York.

Like that he believed kissing him was a chore, something I had to be convinced to do by appealing to my sense of duty. The man had no idea that if it were up to me, I'd kiss him all the time. Not because I had to but because I wanted to. I'd never fallen so hard and so fast for anyone. Of course I had to pick a guy who was both a client and straight.

Not that I had told him any of that. Hell, I'd kept the kiss chaste and brief, fearing that once I got a true taste of him, I wouldn't be able to stop. One day, when he was no longer my client, I'd have to find a way to tell him the truth, but today was not that day.

I pressed a button on my phone and called Coulson.

"Quillon," he said. "Thanks for checking in. Any updates on your end?"

I'd never met a federal agent who was so kind and polite. "My pleasure. Everything's quiet here, but you heard about what happened at York's apartment, right?"

"Yeah. Your boss already sent over the footage, and we have techs working on it. Facial recognition hasn't given us a hit so far."

The day before, the camera outside York's apartment had caught two guys attempting to break in. That had raised red flags, but far more worrying was that they'd been pros, experienced in bypassing locks and security systems. If not for York's custom system, they might've gotten in, but they hadn't been able to figure out his unusual design.

"Do we have any more information on the threats?"

Coulson lowered his voice. "Everything we've found confirms our suspicion that this terrorist cell is behind it. They're smart and have financial backing, a deadly combination. We're not talking about the bomb-in-a-public-place kind of terrorists, but the behind-the-scenes ones. In my experience, those are far more dangerous."

I would have to take his word for it because that was outside my area of expertise. "Is there reason to believe they know where York is now?"

"We haven't caught any chatter about it, but that doesn't mean anything. Like I said, these guys are smart. They're too careful to reveal too much. So stay vigilant."

"Count on it. And just to be sure, you don't have any more concrete details on what they're planning with York?"

Coulson sighed. "They want the technology, which is good news for York. They gain nothing by killing him because the technical details remain with EDS. So my money is on kidnapping him and forcing him to spill the details."

A shiver ran down my spine. "Gotcha."

"I don't like it either, and we're doing what we can to get more specifics. If anything changes, I'll let you know right away. In the meantime, watch your six, okay?"

"Always," I replied and ended the call.

Fuck. I hated the not-knowing. An invisible enemy was impossible to fight. How could I keep York safe if I didn't know where the danger came from?

"Any updates?"

I spun around, my hand on my gun, then slowly relaxed and blew out a breath. "You startled me."

York had walked into the kitchen without me noticing. Not a good sign for a professional bodyguard. York's sly grin told me he'd realized it too, though he didn't comment, which was a small mercy.

"But to answer you, no, nothing since yesterday. They haven't been able to ID the guys at your front door yet."

"My camera is high quality. They should be able to get a good picture from it."

"They did, but their system didn't return any positive hits."

"Oh, okay."

"Everything okay?"

He frowned. "Sure. Why?"

"I'm not used to you stopping your work this early. It's only"—I checked my watch—"four."

"I'm stuck on something. Need to clear my head."

"If you want some fresh air, we could walk over to Collins for groceries."

His eyes lit up. "Yeah, that'd be good."

"You may wanna put on shoes." I pointed at his Grogu slippers—not to be called Baby Yoda, as he had made crystal clear.

He looked down and chuckled self-consciously. "Oops. Be right back."

That would give me time to warn Miller and LaFontaine that we'd be going for a walk.

Once we stepped outside, I breathed in the crisp air. I disliked being cooped up for such long stretches, but it couldn't be helped. And I couldn't leave York alone, so I had to adapt to his schedule.

We walked through the quiet streets of Forestville, our fingers entwined in a casual intimacy that still sent thrills up my spine. York was far more relaxed than he'd been in the beginning, so maybe kissing him had helped? Or maybe he'd grown accustomed to it. I liked the first explanation better.

The quaint grocery store came into view, its vintage sign swinging in the breeze. As we approached, the automatic doors whooshed open, inviting us into the cozy interior bustling with late shoppers.

"Looks like everyone had the same idea." York gestured at the small crowd.

"Yeah. It's busier than usual."

I scanned the people but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. York grabbed a shopping basket, and we did our by-now-familiar round.

"We're almost out of coffee." York snagged a bag of his preferred blend from the shelf.

"Perfect." I tossed a few bars of the darkest chocolate into his basket. "That should keep us happy for a while."

We added some fresh ingredients for dinner—I was craving tacos—and had everything rung up.

"It's so good to see you back in town, York," the cashier, a woman around our age, said.

"Thanks, Heather. How have you been?"

"We're good. The twins are about to graduate. Can you believe it? Feels like yesterday that I did. Certainly gives you a new perspective."

"Jesus, they're eighteen already? I'm getting old."

She laughed. "And you're, what, five years younger than me?"

He nodded. "Class of ‘99."

"So imagine how I feel with those two about to graduate and three more to come in the next few years. I'm lucky I have my parents, who are amazing and always willing to help."

York turned to Quillon. "Heather's mom taught elementary school. I loved her."

"And she loved you right back. You were always her favorite. She still calls you the smartest and sweetest student she ever had." She patted York's hand when he tapped his credit card. "We're not all blessed with our parents, York. I know I'm lucky."

His face tightened. "You are."

"I know. We all know, York."

He didn't say anything to that, and with a last greeting, we walked out. As soon as we were outside, he took my hand again, and warmth spread through me. Did he do it out of habit? Or did it make him feel anchored like it did me?

"Hey, freak! Where do you think you're going?" A harsh, grating voice sliced through the quiet.

A stone's throw away, two lanky teenagers were cornering a smaller teen against a dumpster. A backpack lay discarded on the ground, contents spilled.

"Leave me alone!" The smaller teen's voice was desperate. His fear-stricken eyes were darting around, looking for an escape.

York had frozen in his tracks. Thunk ! He'd dropped the grocery bag on the ground and snatched his hand from my grip.

"Hey!" he called, jaw tight and eyes blazing.

"The fuck do you want?" one of the older kids asked, but he took a step back when York stalked over, me on his heels.

"Leave him alone," York snapped.

"Mind your own business, Grandpa," the kid replied, but his voice had been a little shaky.

"I've decided this is my business. Get your hands off him."

Their mock bravado faltered at York's imposing stance—over six feet of fury. Then their gazes fell on me, dropped to the hand I had on my gun, and the sneers melted from their faces.

"Come on, man, we were just messing around," the other bully muttered, already backing away.

"Doesn't look like ‘just messing around' to me." York crossed his arms.

The bullies shared a glance and, without another word, slunk off. I breathed out, taken aback by the ferocity that had erupted from the usually contained and introspective man.

"Are you okay?" York asked the younger kid with a gentleness that seemed to come from a deep well of understanding and compassion.

"Y-yeah," the kid stammered, still trembling from the encounter.

"What's your name?"

"Matthew. Matt."

"I'm York. What grade are you in?"

"Sixth."

"Are you new to town?"

The kid nodded. "We moved here a few months ago. My dad's the new fire chief."

"Gotcha. I assume you know those two boys?"

"They're in eighth grade. They always make fun of me for being so small."

"I didn't hit my growth spurt until ninth grade, so don't despair. I was always the smallest until I finally started growing."

The boy's eyes lit up. "Really? I hope it will come soon. I hate being the smallest."

"So did I, so I know how it feels. Do you have Mr. Perry for English?"

"Yeah."

"Here's what I want you to do. Tomorrow, seek him out and tell him about this. I promise he'll help you."

Matt bit his lip. "I'm afraid that'll only make things worse."

York leaned in. "Do you know who Mr. Perry is married to?"

Matt shook his head.

"Sheriff Frant. Trust me when I say he'll deal with them."

"I feel like a coward for not standing up to them."

York put a hand on Matt's shoulder. "They're the cowards, not you. They pick on you because you're smaller. Didn't you see them run off when they had to face me? You're the brave one here."

Matt's eyes, red from tears not yet dried, locked onto York's with an intensity that spoke volumes of the moment's importance. "Really?"

"Absolutely."

I observed in silent awe as York slung a comforting arm around the young boy's shoulders, a gesture so paternal and protective it tugged at something deep within me. The kid leaned into the embrace, his body relaxing like a flower to sunlight after a storm.

"Also, do you know Gabe Everett in eleventh grade?"

"Yeah."

"You can always talk to him or to Josiah, his brother. They're both super nice and will have your back."

"Thank you." Matt looked up at York with pure worship, and I couldn't blame him.

"Now, why don't you go home, okay?"

"Thank you. For everything."

Before York could answer, Matt grabbed his things from the ground, stuffed them into his backpack, and took off. York stared after him until Matt disappeared from sight, then blew out a long breath. He turned around slowly, avoiding my eyes. "Let's go home."

My mind raced with thoughts too loud to ignore. The way York had stood up for the kid hadn't just been protective. It had been personal. His intensity, the tremble in his voice that suggested he knew exactly how that kid felt—small, scared, defenseless. "York…" I whispered.

York looked up with vulnerability in his brown eyes, a glimpse behind his armor. "Anyone else would've done the same," he said quietly.

"Maybe, but not everyone does, and definitely not like you did."

His breath hitched. Then he turned away. "I don't want to talk about it."

The defensive walls were back, maybe even higher than before. And like before, I would respect them, hoping for the day he'd trust me enough to confide in me. Because something had happened to him…and my gut said it all came back to his brother.