Page 46 of Breaking Point

He reaches to open the door, and I gasp as a sudden idea fills my head. “Warden. You’re the Breakfast Warden.”

“Har har,” he deadpans, motioning me ahead of him. “After you, Princess.”

I huff. “The more you call mePrincess,the more nicknames I try to make out ofWarden.”

“You’ll run out eventually.”

“Maybe,” I shrug, but the idea makes me smile. “But not before you get annoyed.”

“Had a couple of years to get used to it,” he says, reaching an arm around me to push the door open.

“How many years?” I say, my eyes distractedly wandering toward Ricky’s tent to see if he’s still in.Out, I’m guessing from the makeshift door blocking his tent. “You can’t be a day over… 30?”

I’m fairly good at guessing ages, but I’ll admit he’s thrown me.

Military background, security, and bartending experience…

He’s tall too. Strong, with sharp features and a shadow of stubble on his jaw.

His hand guides me out of the path of a passing pedestrian. “31. But Warden isn’t my birth name.”

At that, I look at him, trying to decipher the look on his face.

All seriousness, just like usual.

“Witness relocation program?” I jokingly accuse.

“Adoption unfortunately. The story isn’t quite as cool.”

I blink in surprise, narrowly avoiding another passerby until he grips my wrist and pulls me aside. He huffs at my obliviousness, but I hardly notice. “I didn’t know that. Are you close with your adopted parents?”

He glances down at me, finger flexing where every inch of skin burns into me, before letting me go. “Theresa, my mother, yeah. My dad, Jimmy… Not so much.”

We walk quietly for a few moments, passing the outskirts of the market until the garage comes into view. I open my mouth to ask another question, but he asks, “Are you looking forward to dinner tonight?”

My dad’s coming, so…

“Not the words I’d use for it.” I smile despite myself. As we climb into his car and I buckle in, I can’t help but look at him as the ignition roars to life. “I believe you owe me another question, Warden.”

His hand finds the back of my seat as he throws the car into reverse. I’m torn between looking at him and asking him something real… The banter is easy, but it’s always one wrong step from crossing into territory neither of us is willing to go.

“Usually, that’s when you follow up with a question,” he says, surprising me enough that I gape at him.

“So you’re finallyadmittingyou’ll play?”

He shrugs as he pulls onto the crowded city street. “Going once,” he rushes me, and I smile, racking my brain.

I could go the easy route- Ask him about his profession. He’d answer, begrudgingly because he feels like he owes me. But part of me sees the challenge in his eyes. He’s not the quiet, reserved man he pretends to be.

He’s a talker.

“Coffee…” I begin, smiling as I glance out the window. “Or tea?”

I can feel his eyes narrow at me, and I know he’s thinkingIs that really the question you’re going with?

“Neither.”

I expect him to continue, but no. The man speaks in tiny, unfulfilling sentences, but I know for a fact that I’ve seen him drink coffee on more than one occasion.

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