Page 2 of Softer Than Stone
I offered the smallest shrug, feigning nonchalance, but he didn’t look away. If anything, his lips twitched again, like he was fighting the urge to smirk outright.
Smythe’s voice dragged me back to the mission. “By the way, cameras picked up your mark two streets away. Jenna’s moving fast, and she’s not alone. Looks like Brax sent muscle this time. Over.”
“Copy that,” I replied, forcing my attention back to the job. Waru’s assessing gaze lingered for a second longer before he turned back to the kitchen, barking at his staff in what I was sure were clipped tones.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling he was more than aware of the distraction he was causing. It was probably why we rarely carried out missions like this—with anyone aware of our presence. Covert ops worked best when there was no one to notice if you flinched at the wrong moment or gave away more than you intended with a stray glance. But Brax was a slippery fucker. We didn’t have the luxury of waiting for the perfect setup.
Thankfully, Waru’s restaurant, Kurranba, had been the ideal choice for Brax to haunt since flying in from Melbourne a week ago. Nestled on the outskirts of the city, the restaurant wasn’t just close to a private airstrip—it also offered the privacy Braxpreferred, thanks to Waru’s refusal to open beyond his limited ten-to-four window.
He also only took reservations.
I’d done my research before approaching Waru. Kurranba, meaning“together”in the language of his people, the Narrunka, had been something of a revelation in Sydney’s food scene. Waru had built his reputation on more than just exquisite flavours—he’d built it on connection. Every dish, from the locally sourced organic produce to the Narrunka-inspired bush tucker specials, told a story of resilience, respect, and tradition.
That’s why Kurranba didn’t cater to late-night crowds or all-hours socialites. Waru believed meals were meant to be shared during the day, with sunlight filtering through the tall windows and grounding you in the present. He once told a food writer that the dinner rush brought “too much noise and too little soul.” That ethos, combined with his laser focus on sustainability and his razor-sharp menu, made the place wildly popular with locals and the occasional tourist who stumbled upon it.
And then there was the kitchen.
High-tech and pristine, it was Waru’s domain, but he’d grudgingly ceded the side room to me for this operation after Smythe’s very convincing background pitch. The two-way mirror looking into the dining area was invaluable for surveillance—the large window in the door to my side also meant I could keep both the kitchen window and two-way mirror in my line of sight making it extra helpful since I struggle to pull my attention off Waru. I’d given Waru full assurance that my presence wouldn’t disrupt his workflow.
So far, it hadn’t. Unless you counted the way my gaze kept straying to him every time I caught sight of his lean figure pacing between stations, growling at his staff, or murmuring sharp commands that somehow felt like caresses. If Smythe had accessto a heart monitor on me, he’d have plenty of fuel for his smug commentary.
Speaking of Smythe, his voice came back through the comms. “Chris, got another fun fact about Waru for you. Over.”
I clicked the mic. “This about my distraction or his culinary brilliance? Over.” Perhaps I wasn’t so shy about just how much I was crushing on the man after all.Culinary brilliance?I should be wincing, expecting Michaels to return to comms to take the piss, but in all honesty, it had been so long since another man had captured my attention so completely, I didn’t have it in me to give two shits.
“Neither. It’s about why he named the place Kurranba. Apparently, it’s inspired by a ceremony his community holds to honour the idea of unity—bringing people together to heal, share, and grow. Sounds like a nice concept. Over.”
I could almost hear Michaels grumbling in the background about my blatant swooning. Smythe was too much of a gossip to let it slide, though. He’d seriously come into his own the last two years of working in the ITU.
“Speaking of unity, Michaels says if you and Waru keep eye flirting, we might be looking at our next SICB power couple. Over.”
I groaned, my focus momentarily snapping back to Waru just as his gaze locked on mine through the door window again. His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. But was that amusement flickering there? Damn it. The man was going to kill me—one side smirk at a time.
Before I could answer Smythe, Michaels’s voice broke through, dry as the Nullarbor Plain. “Chris, maybe focus on your mark. Jenna’s two minutes out. Over.”
I swallowed hard and tore my attention away from the chef. Waru could wait. Right now, Brax’s game was about to start, and I needed to be ready. The fact that Michaels of all people—theresident pain in the backside—had to tell me to get my head off Waru meant I really was distracted.
2
WARU
The lion wasa distraction I never saw coming, taking my level of frustration to all new heights. My staff was feeling it, so was my oversensitive cock from me spending too many hours over the past week taking myself in hand, thinking far too explicitly about the giant, pain-in-the-arse lion who had somehow managed to needle his way under my skin.
It wasn’t even like he was under my feet—staying true to his promise to keep out of my way. And since I was constantly on the move and so busy that the exhaustion seeping into my bones threatened to make me unravel, we hadn’t even stood around and chitchatted.
As if I’d ever chitchat. Even if I had the time, I had no desire to sit back and shoot the shit with anyone. Especially not an SICB agent who I’d been sharing the same space with every moment the restaurant doors were open.
Between running Kurranba and dragging my feet to let go of the reins so my new manager could step up and lighten my load—which was what I was paying them for—the only spare time I had was dedicated to my family.
Though, if you heard them tell it, they’d be more than happy for me to not spend every waking hour visiting them. Just lastmonth,Yayitold me in no uncertain terms to “stop being such a miserablegungie” and to “go hook a man and get laid.”
That was my yayi for you. She’d been like it with all her grandkids, so I had no idea why, being the youngest, I thought I would be immune to her interference. At least she wasn’t trying to marry me off.
Gungie.I held back my snort thinking of the term. It was her go-to word for someone acting like a clueless idiot. I’d heard it muttered about some politician on the news one day and filed it away as classic Yayi. It was affectionate but sharp—a lot like her.
Still, her words echoed in my head as I slammed the oven shut and barked orders to the junior chef. The staff were dragging today, and I couldn’t blame them. My mood was fouling the air in Kurranba like a storm cloud refusing to break.
And then there was the lion, Agent Chris Flint.
