Page 6 of Stay Close
She laughs, and I like the way it makes her eyes disappear. I’ve been on enough first dates to fill every seat in a bus convoy to Bible camp, and I know the sound of a polite, unamused laugh. I’ve made that laugh. This isn’t that.
“Pat.”
“Hm?”
“Her name is Aunt Pat,” she says. “I swear she carries headshots and business cards to hand out to eligible bachelors when she’s running her errands. So nosy.”
I’m already irritated at the pharmacists and accountants Aunt Pat encounters until I remember that I’m out of here in a month, maybe two. “Now I’m your Aunt Pat.”
Her lips purse together and she dips her head, adding unnecessary flourishes to her bullet points. An international lawyer who doodles. Don’t think it. Lucas. Don’t—
Cute.
My mouth sets into a thin line. “Third rule: Everywhere you go, I go first.”
Her stylus pauses. “What are we talking about? Like, even the ladies room? Should I just plan to hold it when I’m out? Avoid fluids? Take one of those funnels?”
No one ever has questions about this rule. No one ever takes notes. Not one person has ever brought up a traveling bedpan. I halt a smile with a long, controlled breath. “Since the palace is a secure location, a lot of my work will be spent scouting potential threats when we travel elsewhere, looking for exit points, and identifying risks. Your job will be to inform me of your movements in advance and to stick to the plan.”
She taps the stylus, waiting for an answer. “Bathrooms.”
It’s such a serious question. I’m impressed at her thoroughness and want to laugh. “I’ll sweep the area, and nine times out of ten, I’ll find somewhere suitable for your use. On the off chance I can’t ensure your safety, it wouldn’t hurt for you to monitor your hydration or use the facilities before we leave.”
She doodles a bathroom sign, and I can just catch the edge of her smile as she mutters, “Use the potty. You really are Aunt Pat.”
Business, Lucas. Keep your mind on business. “Rule number four: I’m in charge. It doesn’t matter how strange you think my commands are, you have to trust that I’m making them for a reason. In the kind of high-pressure situation like the one we faced at the airport, don’t think. Don’t ask. Just do.”
My mind goes over the incident at the airport—all the things that could have gone wrong and didn’t. The one thing I keep returning to is that she trusted me. “You did a good job today,” I say.
She smiles. “You did too.”
Though she can’t know the wide array of skills and actions which constitute a job well done, I warm to the praise.
“Of course, that was a fluke,” she pronounces. “There won’t be another lemon pie. I’m not that interesting.”
Edie Spencer—fresh from a shower, wearing a t-shirt with a vomiting penguin, and curled up on the sofa—isthat interesting. I set my jaw and dredge up the briefing materials. “Though Vorburg and Sondmark are friendly—”
“Friendly-ish,” she laughs.
“Yes. The protestors at the airport tell us that the negotiations will be more tense than we expected.”
She nods. “The size of the island is ridiculous, but neither nation wants to surrender control over it because it represents access to significant fishing grounds worth billions over time. There are parties with a vested interest in this decision.”
“Ecological protesters have correctly identified the gridlock between Sondmark and Vorburg as something that benefits their cause,” I say. This girl is a demon for taking notes, her hand flying across the tablet as I continue. “They don’t want you to settle this dispute, and they already made a move.”
She lifts her shoulder. “People do a lot of silly things when money and national pride are involved. A lemon pie,” she counters, “isn’t that serious.”
This is common. In some cases, clients have to be convinced they’re in any danger at all. I shake my head. “The lemon pie brings me to rule five: Plan for the worst. Today it was pastry, but it could easily have been a test for a larger operation. They demonstrated an ability to get close to you with a coordinated protest on short notice. If they’d chosen to wield another weapon—a knife, a chainsaw—”
“A chainsaw?” she giggles.
My mouth sets. I won’t find her endearing. “Never underestimate how passionate people are about what they do when they’re not getting paid.”
Her brow lifts in a question.
“These people aren’t under contract to construct papier-mâché puppets or glue themselves to the pavement. You can always tell what someone loves when they’ll do it for free.”
“Any more rules?” she asks, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. Thanks to my unusually light schedule, I touched down a couple of days ago, using my time to explore the city, familiarize myself with the transportation system, and get over jetlag. Edie needs rest.
