Page 46 of Beyond Protection
"I noticed."
"Why not?"
Because somewhere between the parking garage and this table, I'd stopped being the bodyguard who kept perfect distance and started being something I didn't have a name for yet.
"I don't know," I said.
It was the most honest thing I'd said since I'd taken the job.
He smiled, a slight turn up at the corners of his mouth. "That's okay. I don't know either."
His hand stayed on my wrist. Warm. Steady.
And I let Mac McCabe touch me while the Christmas lights twinkled around us.
Professional distance: Compromised.
Threat assessment: Failing.
His hand stayed there another thirty seconds. Then he withdrew it—slow, giving me time to process the absence.
The warmth lingered.
From somewhere outside, a children's choir started singing. "Deck the Halls" in enthusiastic, slightly chaotic harmony. The kind of performance where half the kids were singing and half were merely shouting "fa la la la la."
Mac's face lit up. "Oh my god, that's the Wallingford Elementary choir. They do this every year. Set up outside and terrorize the neighborhood with aggressive holiday cheer."
"That's terrifying."
"That's Seattle." He grinned, completely unguarded. "When I was a kid, Ma would bring us down here to watch. Said it was good to remember that not everything has to be perfect to be worth seeing."
I thought about that. About children singing off-key and people showing up anyway. About Mac's hand on my wrist and my disintegrating ability to maintain professional distance.
"She might have a point," I said.
I checked the windows. Reflections showed the mezzanine behind us—one other couple, two tables over. No threat.
The woman with the laptop had moved. Now typing. Just someone working in a coffee shop.
My heart rate refused to slow.
"Eamon."
I pulled my attention back.
"I lost you for a second there."
"Just checking—"
"I know what you were doing." He turned his cup in slow circles. "I do the same thing. Scan the room until you've memorized every face. Every exit. Then scan again because maybe you missed something."
He described my process with uncomfortable accuracy.
"It's my job," I repeated.
I made myself actually look at him. Not scan. See.
He turned slightly toward the window. Diffused, soft light shone around him. It caught in his hair and touched the line of his jaw.
