Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

REED

I used to think being an agent for the Division meant I was ready for anything. After today, I was thinking nobody in the universe could be ready for Chris Winowski.

"There's plenty of room if you'd like to sit down on the bed," I told the man standing in the corner by the window for what had to be the seventh time since we'd entered the shabby motel room.

The wood-paneled space was maybe a couple of hundred square feet—too small to hold more than a single queen-sized bed, a tiny dresser, and a huge television that had probably been the height of technology the year I was born—but the sheets were clean, and the lock on the door was sound.

"Oh. N-no, thank you," Chris replied softly, also for the seventh time. "I'm fine here."

I tilted my head back into the pillow and stared up at the textured ceiling. I'd bet that ceiling had witnessed all kinds of ridiculous shit over the years. Quick sexual encounters, arguments, possibly an illegal act or two. But I wasn't sure it had ever witnessed anything quite as ridiculous as a trained Division agent trying to coax his protectee—the same man who hadn't freaked out during a gunfight and had cheerfully provoked a fucking bar brawl—into sitting six inches away from him.

"You can't sleep standing up," I pointed out. I pressed a dripping bag of ice against my face while another sat melting against the bruise on my ribs where one of the bikers had landed a glancing blow. "You're going to have to sit sometime."

"I will," Chris agreed, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Sometime."

I huffed out a breath. "If you're gonna stand there, at least drink some fucking water."

"I d-did. Thank you. I had three glasses?—"

"Then drink a fourth," I nearly growled. "Otherwise, you're gonna be hungover, the way you were throwing back shots." Three shots of Fireball, to be specific—you'd better believe I'd been counting—which was a lot for anyone, let alone a man who weighed next to nothing. "I'm surprised you're able to stand, period."

"I don't feel drunk anymore." He hovered in the small space between the green-and-gold-patterned curtains and the door and sounded almost regretful when he added, "I'm very much… m-myself."

No, I snorted. He wasn't. The quirky, chocolate-milk-loving, figure skating chatterbox who'd stood up to me at the safe house and again at the bar— It's not stupid to think the best of people, Reed Sunday— had fled the scene, leaving behind only a polite, stammering, agreeable shadow. And though I appreciated that shadow-Chris wasn't throwing himself (and therefore me) into danger at the moment, part of me missed the other version .

A lot.

I'd like to think Chris's anxiety was a normal human reaction to being in danger—a shootout and a bar brawl in one night would stress anyone out. Hell, they stressed me out—but that wasn't the case here. Chris had been tipsy but cheerful on the walk over from the roadhouse, our earlier angry words seemingly forgotten.

As soon as I'd opened the door and he'd seen the small room with its lone bed, though, he'd gone wide-eyed and flustered. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he'd stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. And when I'd taken off my shirt and laid down so I could apply the ice I'd retrieved from the vending area to my ribs, he'd retreated to his corner, as far from the bed as it was possible to get in the tiny space. Which meant it wasn't the proximity to actual life-threatening situations that had stressed him out; it was proximity to… me.

And my big stupid mouth.

I took a breath and tried to summon a patient smile. "Look, if the bed-sharing thing is freaking you out, I promise I've bunked with all four of my brothers. It's no big deal. We all survived uninjured. Except Porter," I added after a moment of thought, "but that blanket thief deserved what he got."

Chris swallowed hard.

"That was a joke," I said gently.

He nodded, eyes round.

I sighed. "Or why don't you take the bed," I offered. "I'll sleep on the floor."

"What? No. Not when you're injured, Reed." Chris gave my ribs a worried glance, then bit his lip, blushed, and looked away, obviously uncomfortable.

"Is it…" I blew out a breath. "Are you worried I might hu rt you if you get close to me? Because I wouldn't, Chris. I swear. No matter how angry I was."

His gaze swung back to mine in surprise. "No, I believe that," he said softly.

"Good," I grunted. "That's good."

Except I had hurt him, back at the bar, and we both knew it.

"I, uh, I wanted to say…" I cracked my neck from side to side. "What I said back at the roadhouse… about you acting…"

"Stupid?" He lifted one fine eyebrow.

I winced at the sound of that word on his lips. "Yes. That. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, and I shouldn't have said it." I shifted in the bed, which made my ice packs fall to the mattress with a wet plop, plop. "I fucking hate that word. I've hated it ever since my fourth-grade teacher said it to me, and I really hate that I said it to you."

I hated that I'd seen it hit him, center mass, and I hadn't apologized immediately. Hated that I'd protected him from bullets and flying punches but hadn't protected him from my own fear and frustration.

"I was upset. And I know that's no excuse, but someone incredibly smart once told me that people sometimes say things in anger, and it doesn't make them a bad person." I gave him a winning smile as I quoted his words back to him. "They just need to apologize and make amends."

"I don't understand why you were so upset in the first place."

"Don't you? For one thing, your safety's at risk, and you're not taking it seriously—" I broke off, realizing that I was getting upset again just thinking about it. In a more conciliatory tone, I added, "I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you, though. I was thinking about that while you were off drinking with your new friends." I shook my head, remembering how quickly the women had adopted him. "The way I acted was unprofessional."

Chris lifted his chin. "And unkind."

"Yeah." My voice was rough. "The thing is, it pissed me off that you keep saying you were kidnapped. I, ah… my last job was…" I scrubbed a hand through my hair. I didn't talk about this stuff. Talking wouldn't change anything, so it was better to move on and keep moving. But maybe I owed him an explanation. Maybe that was how I could make amends. So I talked.

"My protectee was going to be the star witness for the prosecution in a business fraud case against her ex-husband. A few weeks before the trial was to start, she told me she'd changed her mind. She didn't want protection. My bosses figured—correctly—that she'd gotten cold feet about testifying. They wanted me to keep her under protection temporarily and give them a chance to talk her around because otherwise, her ex would walk. She argued that she had a right to change her mind, to not spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. She said I was holding her against her will. She begged me to let her go before anyone could talk her into anything."

Chris watched me carefully. "What happened?" he whispered.

"To her?" I shrugged. "I don't know. I like to think she crossed the border to Canada and changed her whole life around so no one, including her shitty ex-husband, could find her. That's what I'd do if I wanted to disappear."

"No. I-I mean, what happened to you?"

I snorted. "Nothing good."

"B-but you did the right thing. "

Right for her? Maybe. If she stayed safe. But the case did crumble. Her ex went free. Justice hadn't been served.

"No, I didn't. I nearly lost my career—a career that should have always been my highest priority—in the aftermath. My priorities are back on track now, and I'll be damned if I let any of that happen again." It came out like a warning because it was. "But none of that is an excuse for what I said. So, I'm sorry. I promise I'm going to be more professional from now on."

Chris nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Okay," I repeated. But the damn man didn't move a centimeter closer or look any less wary than he had when we got here. "So… could you maybe stop trying to blend into the wallpaper or whatever you're doing? I hate to break it to you, but I can still see you."

In fact, I couldn't stop seeing him, which was another thing I'd realized back at the bar while Chris was pounding whiskey. Every freaking inch of Chris Winowski radiated "Notice Me, Reed Sunday," from his expressive face to his red-bitten lips to the borrowed sweatpants— my sweatpants—which he hitched up periodically. He was like a tiny splinter in my consciousness, a spark in my peripheral vision that kept riling me up and throwing me off my game.

I didn't only need to keep him safe because it was my job; I wanted to keep him safe because… Christ, who even knew why? Maybe because I was attracted to stubbornly loyal, bafflingly adorable miniature humans with soft, brown eyes and questionable taste in movies and television shows?

Which didn't mean I planned to act on that attraction. I didn't. Couldn't if I wanted to keep working for the Division. And as I'd told Chris, I loved this job. Way too much to risk it because I couldn't keep my dick in line. No piece of ass, no matter how sweet or fascinating, was worth that.

I sat up, rubbing a hand over my sore ribs—nothing broken, and they'd be fine by tomorrow—then patted the end of the bed in friendly invitation. "Come. Sit."

Chris stared at me, then stared some more. His throat clicked as he swallowed. And then he honest to God pulled the ugly curtain in front of him. "N-no, thank you. I'm comfortable right here."

"Right. Sure you are." I squeezed my eyes shut. "Look, if you want to stand all night, that's your business. But I need to make a phone call to figure out where we're going next, and then I need to sleep for at least a couple hours, so I need you to promise me you're not going to attempt another daring trellis escape the minute my back is turned."

Chris frowned. "There's no trellis here, Reed. We're on the first floor?—"

"Chris," I said, louder now. "Tell me you'll stay here with me. That you'll let me protect you."

"Tonight? Oh. I mean, sure." But his eyes immediately darted to the door, giving him away.

Jesus Christ. Was this how I would finally lose my mind?

"I'm starting to think the Division was right, back in August," I told the ceiling conversationally. "Maybe I have taken on one job too many. Maybe I am losing focus. I must be if all it took was one doe-eyed, mini mobster to send me over the edge?—"

Chris raised his chin. "I'm not a mobster," he said with quiet dignity. "I told you, I'm a charcuterie specialist."

The hell of it was… I believed him. Not that his uncle wasn't Dante the Cheese—pardon me, Dante Fromadgio —but that Chris somehow, unbelievably, wasn't aware of it. I'd fought as hard as I could to convince myself he was a liar, but somewhere around the time he'd begun calling the grizzly biker president "Mr. Knuckles"—or maybe back when he'd thought the police were hunting Kenny for his excessive zucchini? It was hard to pinpoint, really—I'd had to wave a white flag and admit defeat.

Chris Winowski was as much a criminal mastermind as I was a Disney princess, and if his uncle had raised him to be the heir to a powerful, dangerous crime dynasty, not a single bit of that training had stuck. In fact, the longer I spent with Chris, the more shocked I was that he'd existed this long without constant supervision. The man was a magnet for trouble, and he was only a danger to himself.

And, it seemed, to my sanity.

I groaned and swung my legs over the side of the bed and hunched over, bracing my elbows on my knees.

"Are you in pain?" Chris asked a moment later.

I touched a hand to my ribs again and shrugged, my gaze on the mottled green carpet. "I've had worse."

He made a tsk ing noise. "You really should get some rest. You said you were tired earlier, and you seem a tiny bit… overwrought?"

"Overwrought." I snorted. "Thought you said I was disgruntled ."

"That too. I-I'm not saying that to make you feel bad," he added quickly. "Even John Ruffian might be overwhelmed after so many completely unpredictable and unavoidable occurrences in one evening. And I'm sure it must be weighing on you, too, that there's a chance I'm right about there being a mix-up with my uncle, especially now that you know I can take care of myself." After a brief pause, he added, "Though obviously it was very sweet of you to try to help, back at the bar, and you did get me out much faster than I would have on my own. I don't mean to sound unappreciative."

I glanced up on the slim chance that he was joking. He didn't appear to be. In fact, the sweet, soft expression on his face suggested he was trying in the worst possible way to… comfort me?

"It'd be a lot for anyone, Reed," he continued earnestly, knitting his fingers together. "A-and when so many tough things happen at once, it can be hard to focus on the positive, no matter how hard you try. But my nonna always said that things will look better in the morning, and that was one of the things she was definitely right about… unlike the, um, money-in-the-shoe thing."

He gave me a lopsided smile that turned his handsome face truly gorgeous and made something small and hot and utterly unwanted blossom in my chest…

Until he killed it dead by adding, "Which is why I've been thinking it's probably for the best that we say our goodbyes now and get separate rooms."

"Jesus fucking Christ." I jumped to my feet, all thought of patience evaporated. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" I hadn't intended to move closer to him but suddenly found myself looming over him. "We are not getting separate rooms, damn it! You're staying right where I can see you. You're staying where I can keep you safe."

Chris bit his lip. "Okay, make that a lot overwrought," he whispered.

I found myself wanting to laugh out loud and shake the man silly, all at the same time. Maybe I was overwrought.

I compromised by gripping his shoulders tightly and crowding him against the wall. "You. Are. In. Danger. Chris. I know you don't want to hear that. I know you keep trying to reframe things in your mind to pretend it's not happening. But I need you to trust me?—"

He blinked up at me, his brown eyes huge behind his glasses. "I do, Reed," he insisted with utter earnestness, the kind that was going to get him and therefore me in trouble. "I do trust you. But… what if you're wrong? Even trustworthy people mess up all the time, right? Like maybe your bosses messed up and sent you to find the wrong person?—"

"Because there's another Chris in Little Pippin Hollow who has an uncle named Dante Fromadgio, who also looks exactly like the driver's license photo the Division provided me of you?"

He froze for a second, like he was actually considering this, before expelling his breath in a disappointed rush. "Okay, no. Not that, I guess. But what if… what if someone investigating this whole thing gave your bosses the wrong name? What if there's a different Dante, with a different nephew, and everyone's been confused?—?"

I ground my molars together. "Someone's confused, alright."

"—and if I explain this to your bosses, they'll understand, and you won't get in trouble again," he babbled, the words coming out in a panicked flow while his hummingbird hands flapped a mile a minute in the inches between us. "The last thing I want is for you to lose your job, I swear. But, but… you think I'm this criminal-adjacent person who can handle a gun and a high-speed chase. You think I'm someone brave and fierce, like you?—"

"Stop," I said. "Stop talking."

"But you're going to realize that I'm not actually that guy. That I'm not qualified to be that guy. That I'm really a… a soft person who likes butterflies and charcuterie bo ards and can quote entire episodes of John Ruffian . And you'll be so upset that you wasted your time protecting me?—"

"I said stop talking ," I repeated around the gravel in my throat.

He was killing me. Fucking killing me. I had built defenses—sturdy ones—over the years that made me immune to threats and manipulation, but damn if they were any match for Chris's sweetness. He was so small. So warm. So infuriatingly stubborn, and stubbornly cheerful, and cheerfully infuriating.

When I leaned closer— wait, why was I leaning closer? —I found that he smelled like a combination of fresh air and beer and grass, which seemed to be the missing key to a lock in my brain. From this angle, the freckles across his nose looked like a map to a hidden treasure.

"Y-you know," Chris said, wheezing like he'd been doing wind sprints. "Bossiness isn't attractive. Amber said so."

"Amber?" I repeated. I watched as my hand stroked his hair, my calloused fingers catching on the silky strands.

"M-my new friend. Mrs., ah… Mrs. Knuckles?" He frowned at my lips and licked his own. "She says it's not— oh, merciful heavens. " His breath hitched as my fingers traced a path to his jaw. "Not at all, um…"

"Chris," I said softly. "I'm going to kiss you now."

"Oh." He swallowed and let out a puff of air. "Thank goodness."

When I lowered my head the final few inches and our lips brushed, Chris let out a stifled squeak, but before I could pull back to question him, he pushed up on his toes, wrapped his arms around my neck, plastered himself to my bare chest, and sighed longingly into my mouth.

After that, it literally didn't occur to me that I should pull back any more than it occurred to me that I shouldn't run my hands over the curves of his ass and haul him up so he was braced between me and the door. I never considered the possibility of not running my tongue against the seam of his lips and drinking down the happy, surprised little sounds he was making and sucking on his tongue until I could no longer remember the danger he— we —had been in. The only thought I was capable of was " More ."

And holy fuck, holding Chris was like holding a live wire. He was all awkward eagerness, which was more of a turn-on than I'd ever dreamed it could be. His hands sank into my hair, and his ankles locked firmly against my ass. When I finally broke away for air, he rutted against me restlessly while his mouth explored the side of my neck.

"Oh, Reed," he panted. "Good guh … That is ungh … Oh, uh . Wuh . I think… I might… Hnohnooooo !"

He pressed his face into my shoulder as his whole body seized, then shivered, then froze, then let out an unsteady breath.

Had he just…?

"I-I… I…" Chris stammered. His feet loosened from around my back, though his hands still clung to me. "Oh, man. I can't believe I… I mean, I can believe it, because you're you and I'm me—" His face was beet red, and a distinct wet spot bloomed on the front of his borrowed pants. "But also, really, shouldn't the universe have limits on the number of times a person can mortify himself in one day?"

I was not the person to ask about that.

My fucking protectee had come in his pants—in my goddamn borrowed pants—after less than five minutes of frotting… and it had been the hottest thing I'd ever seen.

Worse than that, I wasn't far from doing the same. My cock was hard as steel in my jeans, Dante Fromadgio's enemies could have been breaking in through the window for all I'd been paying attention, and the man whose trust I'd been trying to earn back stared at me, trembling and wide-eyed.

That was an erection-killer, right there.

"Adrenaline," I said firmly.

Chris looked up at me, eyes shining and glasses askew. "Huh?"

"Adrenaline." I made sure he was steady on his feet, then took a giant step away from him. "That's what this was. An adrenaline rush is a normal reaction in the aftermath of a life-threatening situation, and adrenaline causes arousal."

He blinked. "Does it?"

"Definitely." I reached out and adjusted his glasses because I couldn't help myself. "It's life-affirming… or tension relieving. Something. No big deal."

"Oh." He wrinkled his nose. "But you didn't—" He motioned toward my pants, and his cheeks went even redder. "If you want, I can…"

Fucking God , I wanted, but…

"No!" I said, taking another step back. "Nope. I'm… all set. You should shower so you can get to sleep." I gently grabbed his shoulders and steered him toward the bathroom with a gentle shove. "And I need to call a man about a safe house."

"N-now?" Chris demanded. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, which read 3:47.

"No time like the present." I grabbed my T-shirt and flannel from the end of the bed where I'd thrown them and hauled them on, heedless of my bruises. "I'm gonna step outside, but I'll keep an eye on the door the entire time, so don't get any ideas." I opened the door, then paused. "I'll keep you safe, Chris. I promise."

"Right. Safe." His shoulders slumped. "Sure."

Outside, I locked the door and leaned back against it, taking a deep breath of cold air and willing my cock to deflate. The parking lot was nearly empty of cars and dark except for the neon motel sign. Across the road, though, Trickster's Roadhouse seemed back to business as usual, as though the bar fight really had been nothing more than an "accidental tussle."

I snorted, then quickly sobered.

Christ . What had I done?

So much for professionalism. So much for doing whatever it took to keep my job. I kicked a rock and watched it ping off a tree on the opposite side of the lot.

And what the fuck was I supposed to do now?

I should take myself off the job immediately. But then what? There was literally no qualified Division agent to hand this job off to. Which meant Chris would… what? Get passed on to Margot from Accounts? Get transferred to a different agency altogether? Would they keep him safe?

No. Not like I would.

I thunked my head back against the motel room door and made a phone call.

Seconds later, a deep, perpetually amused, and perpetually wide-awake voice answered. "Reed Sunday, as I live and breathe! You never call, you never write…"

Despite everything, I found myself giving a reasonable facsimile of a chuckle.

Oak Bartlett was a security expert and former colleague who now did private protection work, but he was also a friend… and I didn't have many of those.

"Oak," I said roughly. "I need your help."

He was instantly all business. "Talk to me, boo. What do you need?"

"My ass kicked, to start with," I muttered. "Look, I've got a situation…"

Leaning against a tree a few feet away, staring at the motel room door, I gave Oak a rundown of Chris's case, from my first contact with Janissey—God, was it really only yesterday?—through the mistaken pickup, the not-so-safe house, and the minor, low-key bar altercation.

By the end, I could tell Oak was trying—mostly unsuccessfully—not to laugh.

This was not the reaction I'd expected.

"Can it, Oak. There's nothing funny here," I growled.

"No? Hypervigilant, ultra-dedicated, always professional Division agent Reed Sunday, fleeing a flamingo house, only to insult his protectee, who then flounced off and started a fight with a biker gang?" Oak laughed so hard I worried he might sprain something. "Bet they won't be inviting you to do the new recruit trainings anymore."

Actually, fuck that, I hoped he sprained something.

"I didn't call to provide you with comedic relief," I said testily. Before thinking better of it, I added, "And I apologized to my protectee, I'll have you know."

"Oh, well, as long as you apologized." He laughed harder. "And did he accept?"

"He did, I think. At least until I, ah… kissed him," I mumbled.

Oak stopped laughing. "You… Wait, sorry, this connection is shitty. It sounded like you said you kissed him."

I said nothing.

He whistled. "Well, shit , Sunday."

"Yes, thank you, I know. I'm an ass. An unprofessional ass?— "

"Is he cute?" Oak asked slyly.

I sputtered for a moment before finally deflecting. "Also not the reason for my call. I need a safe house. Someplace I can take this guy for a little while, where trouble can't find him and he can't find trouble. I know that's not your gig, and I know it's a lot to ask on short notice, but I don't have any way to pay for a house that's untraceable, and?—"

"Chill, Sunday, I've got this. Gimme two minutes to check something."

I exhaled and stretched my neck from side to side. "Thank you."

"Of course. I owe you about twenty favors by now. Not to mention, we're friends ," he added pointedly. "Not that you keep in touch."

"I keep in touch!" I protested. "Sort of."

"Yeah? 'Cause I heard a rumor that you had some trouble at the Division last month. That the witness just up and fled your custody, and the Powers that Be weren't pleased. Why the fuck didn't you call me?"

I huffed. "And say what? That I screwed up?"

"See, that's not how I heard the story?—"

"But that's how the Powers that Be saw it." I rested my shoulder against a tall tree. "Security Through Trust, remember? If they can't trust me to obey orders, what good am I?"

"As an agent?" he asked. "Or as Reed Sunday?"

"It's the same damn thing," I said, almost sure it was true. "Now, can we change the subject, please?"

"Sure," Oak agreed easily. He paused for a beat. "So… is he cute?"

At that moment, a shadow flitted past the curtain as Chris moved around the motel room. The light turned off, and I sighed.

"Yeah, he's cute," I admitted helplessly. "He's… interesting. Funny—sometimes intentionally and sometimes not. He's sweet. And I mean genuinely kind." I realized I sounded besotted and made myself add, "He also doesn't stop talking, which is annoying as fuck, and he couldn't walk across an open field without triggering a groundhog rebellion and compelling the bumblebees to fight for him to the death. A total trouble magnet." Over the sound of Oak's cackling, I added, "But none of that matters. I shouldn't have kissed him. The Division has rules against that for a reason."

"They do," Oak agreed. "All kinds of reasons why it's a bad idea to get involved with your protectee. What interests me, though, is that you did it anyway. That you wanted to."

"I didn't want to," I lied. "It just… happened. It won't happen again. And before you ask, this doesn't mean I've lost my edge."

"Because that's the only reason anyone would ever leave the Division, right?" He snorted. "You don't have to mess up in order to move on, Sunday. Maybe part of you's starting to think about what happens when the job is over."

The idea was so ridiculous I laughed. "When this job's over, I'll be on to the next. That's how it goes."

"No, Reed, what happens when the job is over? When you realize Security Through Trust is a one-way street and you're ready for something better?"

"I won't. I said the guy's cute and we kissed, Oak. I'm not upending my entire life for cute . I'm not marrying the guy."

"Right, right. You're not the marrying kind."

"Jesus, no." I shuddered at the thought.

"I'll keep that in mind." He chuckled to himself. "Okay, safe house is all set. I'm sending a text to my cousin, letting him know you'll be arriving tomorrow morning. I'm giving him your real name and telling him you're my friend. He'll probably show you around the place personally. I'll text you his address."

"Hold up. Your cousin?"

"My cousin Watt. I'm sure I've mentioned him once or twice. He lives on an orchard in Copper County, New York."

"An orchard," I repeated. "Like… with apples?"

"Uh, yeah, dude. Obvi. Hey, didn't you grow up in apple country?"

"I did." I shut my eyes and bit back a groan. "I definitely did."

"Perfect! See, when I was there over Labor Day, Watt was telling me about his elderly next-door neighbor who owns a campground with a bunch of RV hookups and some cute little cabins. Used to be kind of a vacation destination, back in the day, but the owners got too old to take care of it, and the lady's husband died, and then she ended up in a nursing home or something herself. Watt's been taking care of the place, but it's a lot to keep up with when he's busy running his orchard. So he posted an ad online in some agro-tourism group to see if someone wanted to come do the clearing and renovation work in exchange for room and board and a small stipend." He snickered. "Shockingly, there've been no takers."

I was pretty sure I knew where he was going with this. "Until now?"

"Yuuuup. You'll love it, I promise. The property's really private—like, backwoods private—and the only nearby town is tiny, too."

"A small town," I said in a strangled voice. "Wow. Perfect ."

"O' Leary is really pretty. When I was there, Watt took me to this bar that serves the best chicken wings I've ever eaten. And I think there's a bakery?—"

"Isn't there always?" I groaned.

"Oh, God, and don't get me started on the festivals. I mean, what kind of unrepentant shithead doesn't love a small-town festival?"

I almost whimpered. Me . I was the unrepentant shithead.

I'd just managed to shake off the dust of the Hollow, so of-fucking-course Oak was sending me to another freaking small town.

"What exactly do I have to do to fix up this campground?"

"Dunno exactly. Watt will tell you. Mow lawns, I guess? Fix cabins. Paint some stuff. Nail some stuff. Screw some stuff." Oak snorted. "Not your protectee, though, 'cause you're not gonna make that mistake again. No, sir. Not even if he's cute and funny and kind. Not even if he is the first protectee whose tonsils you've ever examined orally ."

"You're hilarious," I said blandly. "Thank you so much."

But when I thought about it, being a campground caretaker wouldn't be so bad. It was private, Oak had said, which meant no chance for Chris to find himself a weed-dealing bestie or a posse of bikers' old ladies who needed a drinking buddy. Chris could relax and do… whatever charcuterie experts did on vacation while I did some light physical labor. Orchard and small town aside, it really was pretty ideal.

"Seriously, Oak, thank you so much," I repeated, this time meaning it.

"I'm always looking out for you, Sunday," he said gleefully. "You remember that, okay? Always. Looking. Out. For. You."

"Sure," I agreed, wondering why he sounded so damn happy. "I'll be in touch."

"Do that. And when you're ready to ditch the Division and come work with me in the private security business, you just let me know."

"Never gonna happen," I shot back, but Oak had already disconnected. A moment later, a text came through with Watt Bartlett's address and contact info. Just that easy.

But when I went back inside the shabby motel room, my eyes immediately traced Chris's sleeping form, curled in a ball under the covers right on the edge of the bed. He'd cleared away my ice packs and rifled through my bag, probably for another pair of pants.

Remembering why he'd needed them made my gut clench.

Silently, I crossed to him and slid his glasses off his face before setting them gently on the nightstand.

What's your story , Chris Winowski? I wondered, tightening my hands into fists to keep my fingers from running through his hair. And what the hell are you doing to me ?

Whatever it was, I decided as I laid down carefully on top of the covers beside him, it wasn't going to be nearly as easy and straightforward as I'd imagined my redemption job would be.

It wasn't until the next day that I realized exactly how complicated things were going to get.