Page 57 of Bear and Order

"No." A small smile touches his mouth. "But I'm going to argue anyway."

It does something strange to my chest, that smile. He gives them out so rarely that they land with an unfair kind of weight every time. I shake my head. "Brock."

He squeezes my hand. "I called someone."

My eyebrows rise. That was not what I expected. "What?"

"A colleague," he says, and his smile widens just slightly.

I narrow my eyes immediately. "What kind of colleague?"

"The useful kind."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer you're getting." He cuts me off before I can push further. "Trust me."

The words lay heavily, because the problem is that I do. I trust him far more than I should, far more than I ever intended to. Eventually I exhale. "Fine."

The satisfaction on his face is immediate. I regret agreeing already.

The bakery door opens later that afternoon and I glance up automatically, then understand in an instant why Brock looked so pleased with himself.

A woman steps inside. Tall, confident, sharp-eyed — she carries herself like someone who walks into every room expecting answers. Dark hair frames a face that manages to be both striking and quietly intimidating, and the atmosphere shifts the moment she enters. Not dramatically. Naturally. Like she belongs at the center of it.

Her gaze finds Brock immediately, then narrows.

Interesting.

She drops a folder onto the counter. "Brock."

Brock rises. "Helena."

She folds her arms and studies him slowly, critically, the way a person might inspect questionable produce. "Huh."

He already looks annoyed, which is a remarkable achievement considering she arrived approximately ten seconds ago. "What?"

Helena tilts her head. "You look tense."

"I am."

"That explains the face."

"The face?" he repeats.

"The one that suggests you're considering strangling somebody." She says it pleasantly, like a compliment.

I press my lips together. Helena notices immediately and looks at me, the amusement in her eyes deepening into something conspiratorial. I lose the battle — a laugh escapes, once, then twice, and Brock closes his eyes briefly, which only makes it worse. Helena smiles, warm and approving.

"There we go."

I grin. "I've been saying that for months."

"Excellent." She points toward Brock. "Never let him forget it."

Brock looks deeply disappointed in both of us, and somehow that only unites us further. Helena offers her hand across the counter. "Helena Graves."

I shake it. "Juniper Bell."