Page 17 of Beyond Protection
Sensory overload hit me in the kitchen: Ma at the stove in her ratty pink robe and slippers shaped like cats, moving with the efficiency of someone who'd fed four boys and their friends for decades. Michael leaned against the counter in rumpled clothes, looking like he'd slept about as well as I had.
A third man arrived at the same time I did, rising from the basement.
Tall. Broader through the shoulders than I'd guessed from my glimpses of his midnight arrival. He wore a charcoal sweater with sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing forearms roped with muscle and marked with scars. His copper-red hair curled slightly at the ends.
He stared at his phone with the stillness of a predator deciding whether something was a threat or prey.
Then he turned.
Gray-green eyes. The color of Puget Sound in winter storms. They landed on my face and stayed there, sorting details.
My pulse sounded in my ears.
"Mac," Michael said, setting down his coffee. "Eamon Price."
"Mr. McCabe." He offered his hand, and I took it.
Up close, I saw the finer details: a beard trimmed precisely but soft-looking where it followed his jaw. His sweater stretched across his chest without being tight. A faint flush climbed his neck—pink spreading across pale skin like a sunrise.
"Mac," I managed. "Just Mac."
His gaze held mine. Steady. Patient.
Ma appeared at my elbow and shoved a plate into my hands. "Sit. Both of you. Can't think on an empty stomach."
Eamon shook his head. "I'm fine, ma'am. I have coffee."
"Coffee's not food, and you look like you haven't eaten since last week." She pointed the spatula at him. "Sit."
"I can function on coffee and willpower." Not argumentative, stating a fact.
"Stubborn," Ma muttered. "Fine. Waste away. See if I care."
I sat at the scarred wooden table where I'd done homework and eaten birthday cake and learned that home wasn't a place—it was the people who fed you even when you insisted you weren't hungry.
The bacon was perfect—crispy edges, tender centers.
My phone sat beside my plate.
"Mac." Eamon's voice cut through the morning sounds.
I looked up.
"How many times have you checked that in the last five minutes?"
"I don't know."
"Six." He set his phone down with deliberate care. "You're scanning for threats that aren't there yet."
"Or they are there and I just can't see them."
"That's my job now." He moved closer—near enough for me to catch his scent. Irish Spring soap, black coffee, and something cleaner underneath. It made me want to lean closer. "Your job is to stop monitoring your phone like it's a timer on a bomb."
"But I'm scared if I stop watching, I'll miss the moment when everything explodes."
"Mac, you're already living in the explosion."
He was right. I knew he was right.
