1
Isabelle
I nodat the jogger heading toward me. Six foot. Maybe six foot one. Marathoner. Early thirties.
Good-looking.
Single.
It’s also possible he has a girlfriend or wife, but she doesn’t like to run with him. Every day, rain or shine. Or as is so often the case during our regular morning runs overlooking the bay and marina…the fog.
He nods back like he does every time he sees me, his long stride effortlessly eating up the distance—the opposite of how the run is for me. My legs and lungs burn, beg me to slow down. Possibly even take asiesta.
Not much farther, I remind them.You can do this. I mentally break out the pom-poms and cheer my legs on while I keep an eye on my surroundings, noting anything unusual for this time of day.
That’s not to say I live in a bad neighborhood and have to watch for thugs and whatnots. But the number one rule of being an operative with Quade Security and Investigations is to be aware of your surroundings. The people, the location, the vehicles. Nothing is ignored. Nothing is considered insignificant.
Truth? I’m not an operative.
I’m the office manager—the person those five hot alpha men couldn’t survive without.
But although I enjoy my job, I have a different career aspiration. I want to be more than just an office manager.
I push myself a little harder and a little further, then slow my pace for the cool down. Even though the temperature isn’t exactly warm, sweat soaks through my T-shirt and running shorts. I can thank the last round offartlektraining—sprints that left my legs burning with resentment and resignation—for that.
I can also thank, with a healthy dose of cursing, Jayden Price.
My best friend. My colleague. And in his mind, my personal trainer.
Who is currently away on a mission, being all dark and dangerous and hot, helping to take down a Russian mafia crime boss.
I power walk across the street to the familiar Victorian-style bungalow, sandwiched between two taller houses. Their exteriors are light blue. Mine is rose pink—the color my grandmother on my mother’s side painted it many moons ago.
When she died five years ago, the house became mine, and I decided to keep the colors as they were: warm and eclectic.
I approach the stairs to the porch. Mojo, the big goofball of Bernese mountain dog, lumbers to his feet. His face shifts into his friendly doggy grin.
“Hey, boy. Anything exciting happen while I was running?” Despite his size, Mojo sucks as a running companion. He doesn’t like to run. At. All. Relaxing is his activity of choice.
Not exactly the dog you would associate with a man like Jayden, Mojo’s owner. You’d expect something big and powerful—and a whole lot of scary—like a German shepherd or a Rottweiler.
Mojo gives me a happywoof.
I laugh. “You don’t say. How about I shower, and then we can head to the office? And maybe the guys will be finished with their mission today.” I untie my sneaker shoelace and remove my front door key from it. Then I unlock the door and let Mojo into my house.
As I walk toward the bathroom, my cell phone rings from the kitchen table. Thinking it might be Jayden, informing me that he and the men are on their way to San Francisco, I make a quick detour to the kitchen and answer the phone without checking who it is.
“Hello?”
“Isabelle, darling,” Grandma Josephine exclaims.
A smile breaks out on my face. “Morning, Grandma.” And because I know she’s on speakerphone, and I know her routine, I add, “Good morning, Liza and Henri.”
I open the kitchen cupboard and remove a glass.
The three eighty-two-year-olds say good morning back to me, their voices more excited than they typically are for this time of day. And normally their voices are pretty damn happy.
“I’m in a bit of a kerfuffle,” Granny says. “Can you come over right away?”
