Page 39 of Luck Be Mine
“Second bedroom. Gun safe, your navy equipment, a table to work at.”
“I have a room for this?”
“Yes, your space.”
“Where is your space?”
“Everything else. I mean I’ll organize an art corner in the living room, but the kitchen is already my fiddle space.”
“Fiddle space?”
“Yes. A space of your own.”
He went silent and struggled for what to say, emotion crashing in ways he had no ability to process.
She waved a hand at the living room. “I’ve taken over what has been yours. I’m trying to preserve some privacy for you.”
“I’ve never minded you being in my space. That’s the God-honest truth.”
“Still, it’s necessary. We can’t live in each other’s pockets. First, we don’t and won’t going forward. But when you come home, I don’t want you to find only me here. I want you to see love, safety, consistency. I want you to recognize you in this space, us in this space.”
He studied her eyes, finding the determination yet vulnerability there. “Like a stronghold?”
“Yes, or safe harbor. A place for both of us.”
He’d never had a home in his life. Wouldn’t be able to put one together if his life depended on it, a fact he’d ably demonstrated by the state of his apartment. This was theirs.
“I concur. Safe harbor.”
She nodded at him, and if he saw a flash of tears when she bent to take a bite of the cooling food, he wasn’t going to point it out.
He paid attention to his own food for several bites and took a long drink of the cola. “Tell me about this job offer?” Proud of his reasonable tone, he took another drink.
She left her chair and sorted through a stack of papers on the island. She palmed a black business card and handed it to him.
Hunt studied the card. “QM International Security. I assume the Q is for Quaid and the M is for Mackey? They are both out? We saw them four months ago. This was not mentioned.” Had this been in progress already?
“I’ve only talked to Quaid. He left the CIA after he got hurt. I haven’t seen Mackey, so I can’t say. I didn’t ask.”
Hunt waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. What’s their goal?”
“International bodyguards for business travelers, missing persons, human trafficking, and something about a DOD contract. I didn’t ask for specifics because I wouldn’t be involved in any cases.”
“What do they want you for?” She wasn’t even well yet. How could they be so blind to not see how she struggled?
“Chief Medical Officer.” Her eyes darted over his face. She wouldn’t find anything because he had that shit locked down.
Protectiveness raged, but he wasn’t itching for a fight. He used his napkin to wipe his mouth. Damn if this sweet and sour wasn’t really good, and he couldn’t even enjoy it. “What does the title mean in their context?”
Cait had her fork in her hand but wasn’t eating. “Train their medics, track the wellness and injuries of their people, keep their medical bay operational, put a high level of professionalism on the care of their people.”
Appeased by the description, he stopped for a few bites of food. “No missions or cases, whatever they want to call it.”
“No. Not any. It’s a home base issue – administrative, welfare, and reputation.”
“Pay pretty high?”
Cait rose again and took a packet off the top of the island stack. “Here.”
