Page 5 of Triple Protection

"No. That may encourage him to simply wait until we've moved to our next case. The less the stalker knows, the lessammunition he has to use against you." I reply, shaking my head.

"Him?"

"Statistically speaking, it's more likely to be a man. But we won't rule anyone out completely."

.....

The doorbell rings and I pull out my weapon from where it lies on the countertop before walking to the front door and peering through the peephole. A sedan is backing out of the driveway, so I open the door and see the grocery order Liam had placed when we first realized we were going to be on assignment right away. Most clients aren't expecting to have to feed three new bodies, so figuring out groceries is usually the first step.

I bring in the groceries before closing and locking the door. I can see Angela and Liam through the back slider, lounging by the pool, probably flirting. Their low conversation, punctuated by occasional laughter, floats in from the open sliding door. Brick is asleep upstairs. Working the night shift, he usually sleeps from noon to dinner time. On other jobs, we quickly got into the routine of having breakfast and dinner together, where we could go over any threats, tasking for the day, or any new developments. It helps keep us a close unit.

I pour myself a glass of wine and put on some light classical music while I put the groceries away, leaving out the ingredients for tonight's dinner. Angela wanders into the kitchen, wearing a black one-piece bathing suit and an oversized towel wrapped around her torso.

I peek at her a few times, but she just stands there and watches me, shifting her weight back and forth on her feet and biting her bottom lip again.

"Can I help you?" I growl before wincing at my tone. I'm not always an asshole. Well, not always an asshole. Brief, cold, blunt, yes, but not always such an asshole.

"You cook," she says quietly. Not a question. A statement.

"Obviously." I reply, pulling out enough salmon steaks for the four of us. I love cooking. It's measured ingredients, instructions, order. It's logical. It just makes sense.

After setting the potatoes to boil and pre-heating the oven for the asparagus, I look up at her again. Her long hair is wet and tangled, but the look on her face is pure innocence and interest.

"I take it you don't?"

She shakes her head. "Carlita cooks for me, or I just eat a frozen dinner."

I sigh, taking pity on her. "My mother taught me how to cook. Her mother taught her and so on."

"I didn't have a mother growing up. Um... I mean, I guess I did. She just wasn't around. I don't know where she is." She shifts again nervously. "And my dad never learned how to cook, so he hired a chef."

"Must have been nice." I grumble, adding oil to a frying pan.

"The food was good." She replies quietly. Fuck, I feel like an ass. Of course, she would have preferred having a mother over a personal chef. I swear, I'm not normally this much of an ass, but something about Angela has me off my game, unable to concentrate.

"I'm sorry, that was a dickish thing to say. I grew up with a single working mom on the wrong side of the tracks. We never went hungry, but there were a few months when it was close." I offer as explanation. "My Dad cut out the minute he found out my mom was pregnant. I know what it's like to grow up without a parent."

We lock eyes for the briefest of moments. A common understanding, a mutual respect for a shared history. I clearmy throat and the oven beeps that it's preheated. I throw the asparagus on a cookie sheet, cover them in olive oil and salt and pepper and throw them in the oven.

When I look up, she's still staring at me.

"Do you want something?"

She's still staring at me, chewing on her bottom lip like is has answers.

"If you want something, you have to ask."

She pauses for a moment, hesitating. "Would you... would you teach me?"

I don't really want any more contact with her than I have to have. I didn't become a bodyguard to teach cooking classes. I'm tempted to tell her to teach herself how to cook or watch some YouTube videos. But then I think about what she's really asking me. It's not necessarily about learning how to cook. She could have done that years ago. It's about having someone in her life to teach it. That rare human connection. The way my mother taught me.

I bristle and think back to our last client. She was a royal pain-in-the-ass. She was another influencer turned reality TV star who complained about paparazzi and people approaching her on the street when they recognized her, so she hired us. She was a Kardashian-type. Too much hair, too much makeup. She thought that because she had an audience, every word that came out of her mouth was somehow the most important thing ever said.

I rub the bridge of my nose. God, that was a nightmare. I finally convinced Mirium to cancel the contract when the client threatened to sue us because we didn't move a homeless person that was sitting on a bench she wanted to walk by.

This job was really starting to wear on my faith in humanity - not that I ever had much of that to begin with.

I look back up at Angela. She is different from the last client. During the walk-through, I had already started second guessing my assumptions about this woman. This isn't a self-absorbed woman peddling influence in front of me. Angela is a lonely woman, shy, afraid, and reaching out for human connection.