“I’m not frowning. I’m thinking, there’s a difference.”
“Then what are you thinking about?” she pressed.
“I’m wondering if this is just a phase or if I will have to take my vehicles to the shop again for oil changes and tune-ups.”
Kiyah snorted.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Only if you’ll watch.”
She perked up, and her burgundy lips curled into a smile.
“That’s not a bad idea,” she agreed.
“Tonight?”
“I’ll pencil you—”
My brow furrowed when she swayed slightly and pressed her fingers to her temple.
“Baby, are you alright?” I asked, tossing the documents aside to tend to her.
“Mmm. I don’t know. I got hit with a migraine out of nowhere.”
“Sit down,” I instructed softly, leading her to the couch by her elbow. Once seated, I poured her a glass of water and left to retrieve pain meds and sunglasses. Kiyah suffered from stress-induced migraines when we were younger, resulting in her being bedridden in her room with blackout curtains—sometimes for days.
I returned, finding her clutching the water glass with her head resting against the back of the couch.
“Here. Take these,” I said, dropping the pills into her palm.
“Thanks.”
She swallowed them down, and I slipped her sunglasses on.
“You shouldn’t go to the party tonight.”
“And have Kieran fling himself off the roof because I ruined his strategic seating arrangement? No thanks. I should be fine.”
“At least lie down.”
“I can’t. Mr. Preston should be here any moment. I deserve to be present for this interview.”
The doorbell rang, echoing through the brief silence. Instinctively, I wanted to argue with her because I knew what was best for her—or at least, that was what the old me would’ve believed—but I resigned. I had to trust her judgment.
“You do deserve to be present for a meeting concerning your life and safety. I’m only concerned for your well-being.”
Her lips tugged into a soft smile.
“Thank you for your concern, Grant. I won’t lie, I’m feeling it, but I need to meet the person who we will be paying an arm and a leg to protect us.”
“Thank you for your honesty. Just leave if it becomes too much.”
The doorbell rang again.
I answered the door and was greeted by a sharp-dressed man with neatly styled hair and a demeanor that exuded don’t-fuck-with-me confidence. I liked him already.
“Mr. Baker, I’m Graham Preston of Preston Personal Security. It’s a privilege to meet you,” he said, offering a hand. We shook hands, and I invited him in.