Page 19 of Beyond Protection
I stared at the photos. So different from the ESPN-ready image the public saw. I saw a stranger wearing my face who looked like he was drowning.
"I need your phone now."
I pulled it from my pocket. Unlocked it and slid it across the table.
Our fingers brushed.
His knuckles against mine. It started a small fire. Heat racing up my arm, settling in my chest, and making my breath catch.
I pulled my hand back. Too fast. Too obvious.
He didn't move for three heartbeats. Sat there, with his hand extended over the space where mine had been, staring at the point of contact.
Then he picked up the phone. The flush climbed his neck again—pink spreading from collar to jaw like spilled wine.
"The messages came through standard SMS," he said, voice unchanged. "That's good. Harder to spoof and easier to trace if we can get carrier cooperation."
I watched his thumb move across my screen. His forearm flexed as he scrolled. I watched the flush fade and then creep back when he caught me staring.
Michael came back. "Cameras will be here by three instead of five. And I got you that background check you wanted. You two good?"
"Fine," Eamon said.
"Great," I added.
Michael's mouth twitched. "Right. Well, Eamon Price, an executive protection specialist who works alone and trusts no one. Eamon, this is Mac. First openly gay MVP, currently first openly gay target of a stalker with a conservation fetish." He gestured between us with his coffee mug. "Mac's superpower is charisma. Don't let him fool you into thinking he's handling this better than he is."
Eamon stood. Extended his hand like we were meeting for the first time.
I stood and took it.
His grip was firm. He had calluses too, and they caught where mine were thickest from ten years of fielding grounders.
We held on for longer than necessary, and then we both let go at once.
I shoved my hands in my pockets to prevent reaching for him again.
Michael watched us with barely concealed amusement.
I did my best to hide behind humor. "I appreciate it. This whole knight-in-shining-armor thing—"
"Mac," Michael spoke in a warning tone. "You're deflecting."
Eamon sat back down. "You play third base."
"Yeah. How—"
"Your hands. Specific fielding gloves change the wear pattern."
"I thought you didn't follow sports."
"Only insofar as it's important for my work."
"But that's so specific—"
"It's part of the job. Like the fact that I know you're exhausted. I know you checked the street before coming downstairs. I know you're wearing your dead father's shirt because you need comfort, but you're afraid to ask for it directly."
His words were like tiny missile strikes on my brain. "And I know you made a joke about knights because you don't knowhow to interact with someone who's here to protect you instead of using you."
