Page 12 of Gunnar

I point at the island, my finger trembling slightly despite my best efforts. “Right there. In a vase I don’t own, arranged like a gift.”

His gaze follows my gesture before he begins evaluating the room with renewed intensity. “Security footage?” he asks, testing the locks on the patio doors.

“It’s exterior only. And already provided to your company.”

“Good.” He studies the glass doors overlooking the backyard for another long moment, then decides, “These need upgrading.”

I laugh, the sound sharp and disbelieving. “They’re brand new. I had them installed six months ago.”

“They’re inadequate.”

“You’re inadequate.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, a childish retort that belongs in a schoolyard, not a security consultation.

To my horror, his lips twitch. It’s not a smile—not quite—but dangerously close to one, the corner lifting in a way that transforms his severe face into something almost approachable. “Oh good,” he exhales sarcastically, pinching the bridge of his nose.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“You’re difficult.”

The nerve. The absolute, unmitigated nerve.

“The nerve,” I grumble aloud, because apparently, I’m incapable of keeping my thoughts inside my head today.

“You’ll survive.”

“I haven’t decided whether you will.”

His lips curve fully in amusement, making him significantly—and inconveniently—more attractive. He’s not supposed to be attractive. He’s supposed to be professional, distant, and forgettable.

He moves farther into the house, his attention shifting to the hallway leading to the den and Sarah’s office. “Who has access to the property?”

I sigh dramatically, letting my arms drop. “Wow.”

“Wow, what?”

“Straight back to work.”

He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and actually looks at me for the first time since his arrival. His expression softens slightly, the professional mask lifting just enough to reveal the slightest bit of human concern. “Miss Martin⁠—”

“Devyn,” I correct.

“Devyn, someone violated your space, your safety, your sense of control. No matter how frustrating you find me, no matter how much you want to argue about windows or lack of movie preferences, I’m trying to prevent that from happening again. That’s my only goal here.”

“I find you very frustrating and off-putting,” I inform him.

“I gathered.”

“And it’s only been twenty minutes.”

He looks at his watch before correcting, “Fifteen.”

“Oh my God.” I sigh, rolling my eyes.

Practically ignoring me, he gestures toward the hallway. “I’d like to continue the sweep.”

I fold my arms tighter, a last bastion of resistance. “Do I get a vote?”

“No.”