Page 17 of Rent an Enforcer

I place a hand over his, where it’s resting between us on the cushion. “I know how you make me feel. I know what you’ve done for me. You protected me. You got rid of the straws in our glasses when we went to lunch. You make the fear that’s always in my mind quiet down, and nobody else has ever done that. None of what you just told me changes what I already knew.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. I wonder how many times he’s felt rejected and decide not to ask that question out loud because even I have a degree of self-awareness. Maybe not a very large degree, but some.

“I mean.” I squeeze his hand in case that gets the point across. “I think it’s pretty cool. Or should I not think it’s cool? Is there something wrong with me that I think it’s cool?”

He shakes his head and holds up his other hand. “Don’t spiral. Your reaction is not what I expected.”

“Don’t you know by now? You need to expect the unexpected around me.”

The short, almost silent laugh that bursts out of him makes me laugh along with him. “You should meet them,” he blurts out.

And just like that, my laughter’s gone. Like it never existed. “What?”

“Dorian and Quinn, his wife. You should meet them. And their daughter, Lillie. She’s five. Technically, she’s Dorian’s daughter, but Quinn is her mom in every way that counts.”

He’s hitting me with a lot of information in a very narrow window of time. “Okay. Wife, daughter. Got it.”

“You can see what it actually looks like before you decide my life is like The Godfather.”

“Is it not The Godfather?” And am I a little disappointed? Because I sound like I might be a little disappointed.

“It is not The Godfather.”

“Maybe just a little bit?” I hold my fingers up roughly half an inch apart. “A tiny bit?”

He only shakes his head, though he’s wearing the tiniest hint of a grin as he calls Dorian so they can make plans.

Apparently, neither of these men understand what it means for a girl to meet a guy’s family for the first time. Or business associates. Whatever he considers them. How do I know? Because they decide to have dinner tonight. As in a handful of hours from now.

By the time we head out, I’m paint-free... at least, I think I am. I’m also wearing the only nice dress I own. “You’re sure this is okay?” I ask, tugging the hem a little further down until it touches my knees. I might be too dressy, but then he’s not giving me much to work with here.

“You look fine.”

“Okay, you really need coaching on how to speak to women if you think that makes me feel any better.” After tugging the hem another few times, I take the hand he holds out and let him lead me from his SUV across the street to the entrance of a restaurant I’ve never heard of. I spent the whole drive here to tame my hair imagining what I’m about to walk into. A dimly lit back room full of cigar smoke. Men in pinstripe suits discussing someone’s unfortunate kneecaps. Maybe a violin player who seems normal but is definitely also an assassin.

What I actually walk into is a well-lit Italian restaurant with white tablecloths and a hostess who smiles at us and doesn’t appear to be concealing any weapons... though I suppose that’s sort of the point of concealing them.

And then there’s the family.

Quinn Moretti is pretty and blonde and stands when she sees us. Right away, she hugs me, which is alarming because I don’t get hugged by strangers often, but it’s also kind of nice because she smells like vanilla and seems genuinely happy I exist. Dorian is tall and handsome in an intimidating way that reminds me a little of Tristan. He shakes my hand very politely before pulling out Quinn’s chair for her. That’s not Godfather behavior. Not that I’m an expert or anything.

And then there’s Lillie. She’s five years old and has curly hair and very sharp eyes. “You have long hair,” she announces.

“I do,” I admit as I take a seat.

“How come?”

“Lillie,” Quinn murmurs, stroking the little girl’s curls and tucking them behind her ears. “It isn’t polite to ask a lot of questions when you first meet someone.”

“That’s all right,” I murmur, winking at Lillie. “Sometimes scissors are scary for me.”

Lillie looks very serious as she weighs this with all the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. “I don’t think scissors are scary,” she concludes.

“That’s because you’re way braver than I am.”

This seems to satisfy her, and she goes back to coloring on her placemat while I settle in next to Tristan and try very hard not to blurt out every thought running through my head. It’s a losing battle. Let’s just put it that way.

“You’re very... normal,” I tell Quinn, for lack of anything better to say.