Executive Protection(26)

She felt strongly about the matter. Well, so did he, and they didn’t agree. “I don’t believe I will ever find someone I feel that sure about.”

“People who don’t look for it are the most likely to find it,” she said.

“Then why are you looking?” he asked.

That sparked a little fire in her eyes. “What did you find out about Rosanna?”

At least they could stop talking about love now. “She’s going through a divorce. The husband was recently arrested for drinking and driving and he cleaned out their bank accounts.”

“She’s having financial problems,” Lucy said sympathetically. “Do you think she’s going to have to give up Sophie?”


“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

With her contemplative frown, Lucy didn’t seem convinced.

“We’ll keep an eye on her.”

She blinked slowly, and he felt her warm appreciation. “How do you propose we do that?”

“We’ll think of something.”

His use of we filtered between them.

“There might be hope for you after all, Thad Winston,” Lucy murmured.

Her meaning struck him squarely in the same instant he saw her realize she’d spoken the thought aloud. He had a tender spot for a child and endeavored to see to her well-being. While having a tender spot for a child may not be unexpected, what it did to his heart was.

* * *

Late that night, Lucy gave up trying to sleep. Everything Thad had said kept going through her head. He obviously cared about kids or he wouldn’t have made the effort to check on Sophie’s welfare. What troubled her and kept her from sleep was his certainty over not ever wanting a family. It was so opposite to what she was looking for, she didn’t understand how she could be so moved by his protectiveness. It was probably the cop in him, nothing related to the potential to be good husband material.

She should take his word for it when he said he wouldn’t have a family of his own. Why, then, did she feel there was a chance he was wrong?

Slipping into her robe, she left her room, passing a glance at Thad’s room next to hers. The door was open but it was dark inside. She made her way downstairs. The Winston estate was a nearly ten-thousand-square-foot palace. When she’d first arrived to the white brick exterior trimmed with black shutters, she’d chastised herself for not realizing Kate would live somewhere like this. Security used the guesthouse during their work shifts. There was a grand front entry and a side entry that they all used.

Lucy passed that on her way into the kitchen. Through a wide archway, she stopped short on the cool, white marble floor.

Thad stood on the other side of a big, nearly square island, his bare chest visible above the dark granite countertop. One of the double doors of the refrigerator was open behind him. He made her breath falter before she noticed him preparing a root beer float.

She tightened her thin, silky robe, making sure the curvier parts of her flesh were covered. Pendant lights hung from brown decorative tiles trimmed into the high ceiling above the island. Plants topped an expanse of white cabinets and a white-trimmed double door led to a patio, the glass dark now. She was glad it wasn’t bright in here.

“You’re a late-night grazer, too?” he asked, lightening the mood.

“Only when I can’t sleep.” She walked around the island.

“What do you eat when you can’t sleep?”

“Root beer floats,” she said.

He chuckled, a breathy sound, deep and masculine.

“I’m serious.” Root beer floats were her favorite. They were cool and refreshing and sweet but not too sweet. While he sobered with a stunned look, she said, “There’s something about chunky vanilla ice cream and the burst of carbonated root beer.” She kissed the tip of her fingers and tossed the gesture of delight toward him.

He still stared at her. “What else do you like?”

She put her hands on the granite countertop beside him and to the right of the sink. “Leftovers. Cold pizza. As long as it isn’t a frozen dinner, I’m happy.”

Leaving her briefly to retrieve another frosty mug from the open freezer drawer, he scooped her some ice cream and poured the root beer. It didn’t fizz too much.

“You’re good at this.” Leaning her hip on the counter, she lifted the mug and sipped.

He leaned his hip on the counter, too, so that they faced each other. “I had lots of practice when I was a kid. We didn’t go out to ice cream shops much.” He joined her for a taste.

Making root beer floats wasn’t a science experiment. It was something to talk about. She felt silly, flirting like this. It spawned a thought.

“I rode my bike to an ice cream shop every week when I was ten,” she said, and then decided to torture him some more. If one could call it torture. She was starting to think his antifamily claims were more of a product of phobia. “One time I was sitting at an outdoor table with a friend when a boy from school came over and knocked the ice cream off my cone. He was a year or two older than me. I asked him why he did it and he said it was because I was a girl. I waited for him to leave and followed him on my bike. He went to a convenience store and got a slushy. I got one, too, and came up behind him in line. When it was his turn to pay, I put my slushy down on the counter. That’s when he saw me. I told him he owed me for knocking my ice cream cone. ‘I’m not paying for that,’ he said, and then the cashier asked if it was true, had he knocked my ice cream cone off? And the boy muttered something and paid for my slushy.”