Page 138 of Knot So Fast
"We need to look into something," I say without preamble when he answers. "Auren's been getting threats. More serious than the usual social media garbage."
"How serious?" His voice immediately shifts into problem-solving mode.
"Photos at her apartment. Someone was at the kart track tonight. Different numbers, but coordinated messaging."
"I'll start a trace on the numbers. Can you forward me what you have?"
"Already sending them. And we need to talk to Luke about increasing security at her place since he's normally around."
"On it."
I hang up and immediately dial Luke. He answers on the second ring, sounding slightly out of breath.
"Everything okay?" he asks, because late-night calls rarely bring good news.
I fill him in quickly—the threats, the surveillance, the need for increased vigilance. He listens without interrupting, then says simply, "I'll handle it."
That's Luke—no drama, no questions, just quiet competence.
Before the call ends, I take a breath and dive into completely different territory. "Hey, Luke... you free sometime next week?"
"I can make time," he says, and there's something in his voice that suggests he knows this isn't about Auren's security. "What's up?"
I can feel myself blushing, grateful he can't see me through the phone. The words come out in a mutter, nervous energy making them run together. "Let's grab some drinks sometime. Just you and me."
The pause that follows feels eternal, even though it's probably only a second or two. Then I can hear the smile in his voice, warm and surprised and pleased.
"Sounds like a plan."
MEDITERRANEAN HIGHS
~AUREN~
"GET BACK HERE AND COVER YOURSELF UP IN THAT SKIMPY ASS BIKINI!"
Luke's voice carries across the yacht's deck with the kind of exasperated fondness that only comes from dealing with someone who's completely lost their inhibitions after exactly one shot of tequila.
I'm squealing as I dodge his attempts to throw a towel over me, dancing away with the grace of someone who's had just enough alcohol to think they're invincible but not enough to actually impair motor function.
The bikini in question is admittedly tiny—a deep purple number with strategic strings that's more suggestion than actual coverage—but we're on a private yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean. If there was ever a time for a skimpy bikini, this is it.
"Fuck you, and never!" I holler back, laughing like a crazed girl as I dart behind one of the deck chairs.
The Spanish sun beats down on us, turning the water into a blanket of diamonds that hurts to look at directly. The sponsor's yacht gleams like a promise of everything money can buy—allteak decking and soft Egyptian cotton towels, a bar that's better stocked than most restaurants, and enough space that our entire team can spread out without feeling cramped.
Kieran watches the chaos from his position by the bar, a beer in hand and amusement written across his face.
"Did you give her tequila?" he asks Luke, though the answer is obviously yes.
Luke groans, still pursuing me with the towel like a mother hen with a particularly rebellious chick. "One fucking shot glass and she's wilding!"
"You of all people should know she handles alcohol horribly," Caspian sighs from his lounger, where he's been meticulously applying SPF 100 because apparently engineers don't believe in tanning, only in preventing skin damage with mathematical precision.
"Does not!" I protest, then immediately undermine my own argument by tripping over absolutely nothing and having to grab the railing to steady myself.
I recover with what I think is admirable grace, skidding across the deck to hide behind Dex, who's been documenting everything with his phone for what he claims are "team building memories" but what I suspect will become blackmail material.
"Defend me!" I demand, gripping his shoulders and using him as a human shield against Luke's towel assault.
