Page 23 of Donovan's Men

“You have them with you?”

This noise sounded more like agreement.

“And they need to be taken with food?”

Another positive grumble.

“Then we’ll get drive-thru. I can’t eat while driving, but—”

“May I feed you?”

“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure that still falls under distracted driving.”Because having you that close would definitely distract me.

“You’re no fun.”

“No, I don’t want to be pulled over with a witness in my car.”

His gaze shot to mine. I noted the movement in my peripheral vision but kept my eyes on the road.

“That bad?”

“Well, not that good. I mean, I could just be driving you home, but I should have another officer with us.”

“So that you don’t say or do anything untoward?”

“Exactly.”

“And if I want you to do anything untoward?”

This man is likely going to be the death of me.

But what a way to go…

We stopped at a burger joint, and while I ordered a nice big burger, Donovan selected the grilled chicken option.

With extra lettuce.

Whatever.

We arrived at his house about forty minutes later as I needed to fight with the hordes of commuters abandoning Vancouver for the suburbs. My condo wasn’t too much farther, but I took Donovan up on his offer of a place to sit and eat before moving on.

And as strong as he was, I saw the vulnerability. Felt his desire not to be alone.

While he heated my burger and fries in the microwave, I took a good look around. This place didn’t read as much of an alpha male as I’d expected. Instead of chrome and leather, he had a nice navy-blue fabric couch. The dove-gray recliner angled toward the big-screen television which, although substantial, certainly wasn’t the biggest on the market. Art in various styles adorned the walls—nothing demanded supremacy, but I noticed a large number of Indigenous pieces. Finally, his bookshelf held a mixture of hardcovers, paperbacks, as well as a substantial collection of movies and a handful of CDs.

Donovan whistled, and I moved to the kitchen. He presented the burger and fries on a plate while he nodded to the fridge.“Everything from beer to pop to mineral water.” He raised his arm a fraction of an inch. “It’s getting sore.”

“I’d imagine. You were shot yesterday. You’ve been on the go all day today. I stressed you out by taking you to the scene of the shooting—”

He waved me off with his good arm. “That had to be done. Better with you and Doc being there to hold my hand.”

I wasn’t certain we’d held his hand, but I had to ask, “Why do you call him Doc? I mean, I know he has a PhD—but clearly it irritates him.”

“Because it irritates him.” Donovan gestured we should go through to the living room.

After grabbing a soda, because as much as I wanted a beer, I was driving, I followed him.

He plopped into the recliner and then had to angle himself to use his left arm to activate the reclining mechanism. “Fuck a duck.”