“She’s had some. You let me worry about my personnel.” Although Nolan would by far take Fynn’s concern versus the clients who assumed all their bodyguards should be available round the clock on a moment’s notice, like inanimate objects. “Do you want a shower and breakfast?’
“Yes. Plus I should finish making a list. I’m feeding extra mouths.”
“You don’t need to feed us.”
“I like to. Feels more like having friends over and less like… whatever this is. And I enjoy cooking when I have time.”
“Well, make sure you take the cost out of what you’re paying us.”
“Right.” Fynn said the word flatly enough Nolan was sure he wouldn’t.
Nolan pulled out his phone. “It’s seven-thirty now. Leave at eight-thirty? Nine o’clock?”
“Nine sounds good.”
He texted a notice to Amelia and as added precaution, told Charlie to come play chase car. Better safe than sorry.
Fynn had turned to browse in his refrigerator, his mug once again firmly clutched in his hand. “I can make us cinnamon French toast. That’ll use up the last of the bread and eggs. Then I can buy fresh. Added incentive to shop.”
Nolan had eaten a sensible low-carb meal of lean turkey ham scrambled in egg-whites at five a.m., but he wouldn’t turn down Fynn this morning. “Sounds tasty.”
“I’ll go shower, and then start food.”
Nolan turned back to his emails. He’d finished reading the Denver PI’s report confirming one of the fired employees had been a thousand miles away through the whole episode when he realized he hadn’t heard the shower go on. A quick check of his cameras and alarms on the back windows showed nothing wrong. He cranked the audio on the bedroom camera nearest the bathroom, but all that came across were tiny, muffled sounds.
He wasn’t in the job of spying on his clients. There was a reason the cameras pointed out of the apartment, not in. Fynn might be plucking his eyebrow hairs or rubbing one out or crying, and none of those were Nolan’s business.As long as he’s okay.
He sat out another half hour, getting more antsy as the minutes rolled by, until finally he slid off his chair and went to the bedroom door. He knocked gently. “Hey, are you okay? Do you want me to start the French toast?”
The door was yanked open two seconds later. Fynn stared at him, phone in hand.
Not teary-eyed, not looking upset.Nolan’s worry settled. “Sorry. Do you want to push the shopping later?”
“No. Crap.” Fynn stared down at the small screen. “I was looking up the weather to see what I should wear, and there was a piece about how much of the US is in drought. I got curious about which avocado-growing regions were affected, because growing conditions alter the flesh-to-pit ratio, which influences—” He cut himself off. “I got distracted.”
At least you look more cheerful.“I can tell Amelia to come for nine-thirty.”
“I’ll shower now. Nine should be fine.” Fynn shut the door in Nolan’s face. Then yanked it open again. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to.”
Nolan waved. “Go shower. I’ll start the French toast.” He waited by the door, though, till he heard the shower go on.
Pancakes had always been Nolan’s mother’s go-to, but cinnamon French toast was easy. When Fynn came out, hair damp and glasses fogged around the edges, Nolan had a plateful on the table. He waved toward Fynn’s seat, where he’d refilled the obligatory coffee cup. “Park it there and I’ll serve breakfast. You don’t have any fruit except avocados, but there’s jam and I poured orange juice.”Give you some vitamins with the carbs and caffeine.
“This is nice.” Fynn eased down into his chair. “You didn’t have to.” He took off his glasses, his eyes looking bigger and softer without the lenses, wiped them on the hem of his polo shirt, and slid them back up his nose. His soft smile squeezed something inside Nolan.
“Not a problem. Mom made sure all her kids could cook.” He set his phone handy beside his place since Amelia would ping him when she arrived and using an ear bud at the table felt impolite. Once Fynn had served himself, digging into plain slices, Nolan spread his share with strawberry preserves. “Don’t you like jam?”
“Not often,” Fynn said around a mouthful. “Too much sugar. Do you do things like this for all your clients?”
“Hardly.” Nolan paused to figure out the difference. “Most of them live like they’re wealthy. They have staff to cook breakfast, and large apartments or houses so we bodyguards are out of sight when they’re home.” Unlike this small apartment. Sharing a meal and crashing on the couch felt more like a friend’s place than a client’s. Maybe that was why Nolan’s detachment kept slipping.
“Micah bought a big house last year,” Fynn said. “He wanted me to do the same, or to move in with him, but I like this place. It’s familiar and I have all my routines. I don’t do great with changes.”
“Wouldn’t he be company, though?” Fynn had shrugged off a request to list his close friends with “Haven’t had any since grad school.” The man seemed painfully isolated, although he acted like he didn’t care.
Fynn wrinkled his nose. “Micah stepped in after our parents died and I pretty much burned out his patience then. I’m sure he heaved a huge sigh of relief when I turned him down.”
“You were a teenager, though, right?” Nolan thought he remembered that. “Everyone’s hard to live with as a teenager.”
