by K. T. Samois
The inconvenient truth escapes, hanging in the air like dust-motes in a sunbeam. Ree’s eyes close at the enormity of her error, but she breathes in slowly through her nose and doesn’t take her words back.
She doesn’t move — but then, neither does Hardin. When her eyes open, he’s staring at her as though she’s done something improbable. His mouth opens to speak. For once, the mask he wears to hide his emotions slips, and she’s able to see shock, disbelief, and something that looks like— like hope?—before it’s ruthlessly squashed away. His mouth shuts. Shame follows in its wake, and he averts his gaze from hers. He’s wild and skittish as a kicked tomcat, and it breaks her heart.
Ree doesn’t need to hear it. Not yet. She knows he’s capable of it; knows he’s in love with her by the strength and gentleness of his hands when he touches her, the way his smile warms when he listens to her, and the way his voice deepens with happiness when he speaks to her. The contentment in his expression when he wakes up in their bed, and the desire in his eyes when he lays her down at night.
“It’s okay,” Ree repeats, even as her hand cups his cheek. She needs to make him believe her.
“Hardin. Hardin, listen to me. It’s okay,” she promises. “It’s okay. I know.”
She puts every tender kiss and private laugh behind her words. Every gentle touch in darkened rooms. “I know.”
“Riona,” he whispers, and it’s more than enough for now.
***
His gloved hands clench and unclench on the leather of the steering wheel. His breath falls in cadence: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Hardin wants to be sick; cold adrenaline sluices through his veins. He has no desire to do this. The service had been nerve-wracking polite, with his company manners on best display. Hardin’s never run a negotiation, but he’s stared into the distance at enough to know when knives are being drawn under the table.
He’d taken their measure. A sea of pale faces, all of them with matching fox-like smiles, had stared back at him with varying degrees of reservation. No teeth had been bared. But now he knows he’s running into enemy territory dick first.
All for Riona, who sits in the seat beside him, smiling wider and wider the closer he gets to their destination.
At least the car fits in, Hardin thinks, wry. The 1956 Jaguar convertible prowls through the Upper West Side boulevards like it’s on the hunt, and Hardin notices that even the pickled old men in their half a million dollar midlife crisis machines look twice when the roadster drives by. He feels like the rankest imposter-
“Anywhere along here is great!” Ree instructs, and he pulls over. He’s over to Ree’s side of the vehicle and extending a hand to help her out before he can second-guess himself. The smile that blooms when he does is worth the risk of looking soft.
“You look very handsome,” Ree says as she straightens the Distinguished Service medal gilding his chest.
“Had to do you justice, kitten.”
Riona always looks striking, but she’s taken extra care today. She’s sheathed in a dress the colour of fresh clover, with the delicate flash of diamonds at her ears. She’s got the autumn glory of her hair tucked into a refined chignon. He’d watched her spend a good half hour on the arrangement. His hands ache to pull the pins out and let the waves cascade down over her back.
Later, soldier. Keep thinking with your head and you’ll get yourself in trouble.
“Mm. We should find you more opportunities to get you in a suit,” Ree mutters, and Hardin bites back a wolfish grin.
“I… Thank you, Hardin.” She tugs him to a stop below a just-blooming magnolia tree in front of a white limestone townhouse. “I wish I could chop this all up into little bite-sized chunks for you, but I am actually related to all of them. I’m asking an awful lot of you, but I do appreciate it. It takes a brave man to run into enemy fire.”
“Are they my enemies, Riona?”
***
Hardin’s prone to seeing the world in black and white — enemies and allies, threats and benefits. Her heart aches, thinking about the sort of life that would spawn that sort of mindset.
Well. Whatever kind of life it was, she’ll see that it ends today. If she can’t unfuck his entire life, she can at least tidy up her corner of it.
“Nope. Stay still, please.”
She keeps her voice soft, but he plays along as though it were an order. Military rigidity suits him, which suits her just fine. And call me a romantic, but if he’s going into battle for me…
An idea hits her, and Ree’s smile blossoms with mischief. Her hands undo his top buttons with deft practice, even as her cheeks go pink. Rising on tiptoe, she presses a Chanel-red kiss to the dip of his clavicle. When she pulls back, the part of her that always enjoyed colouring within the lines enjoys the perfect kiss mark she’s left. She fumbles through her purse, producing a travel-sized bottle of makeup setter. A spritz later, his buttons have fastened, and Ree’s wearing what even she’ll admit is a smug grin. Hardin, to his credit, has not moved.
He does, however, look pretty confused.
“Now you’re wearing my colours, like a proper knight off to battle my enemies. Which they are not.”
“How can you know?”
“First, because they’re my sisters and I can read them like books. Second: because I’ve had my phone on vibrate the entire ride home, and it’s showing up on seismometers by now.”
“So? Maybe it's bad news.”
Ree laughs. “No, then it’d be silent, and they’d wait until you left to ambush me and tell me in blistering detail why I’ve made a glaring mistake. These? They’re making fun of me, which means they’re at least reserving judgement. And I like you. If they want to have a go, it’ll be through me. That’s my side of this, right?”
“It — is?”
Ree has a soft spot for the semi-feral city cats, but this is like trying to hand-tame a tiger. She isn’t sure she’s qualified.
“I don’t have a lot of practical experience,” she starts, and he snorts. She blisters him with a look. “But I would assume that if you’ve got my back, I ought to have yours. But Dad’s already asked about your medals, so I think we’ve got an in. Come on.”
He stares at the limestone building with trepidation. “Which apartment is yours?”
“Ah. Yeah. The all of it?”
“You might have neglected to mention that. I think I’m under-dressed.”
“Hardin, your shoes are so shiny you could blind pilots. You polished your pin. Also, I’ve lived here my entire life. Like, my parents brought me home from the hospital to here. My neighbours have seen me in four-day-old hair and sweatpants. Moira is still a gremlin, and she lives here too. You’re fine, I swear. It won’t get easier standing here.”
“It might.”
“Not at all.” She nods at the large windows, just in time for the black drapes on the top floor to flutter shut. “It’ll just give her more ammunition for her teasing. Try not to show fear.”
Her voice is grave-dirt dry.
“I just have one question, Riona.” His voice is grim.
Ree’s stomach clenches like a fist. “Yes, sir?”
“Do they hunt based on movement?”
Ree’s still giggling when the door flings open, ricocheting like a sniper shot.
“They’re HERE!”
A blur of pale limbs and wild black hair shrieks and flings itself at Ree.
She’s prepared for that. The world tilting on its axis is much more alarming. When her head’s done spinning, Hardin has hauled her out of the way by the waist, and Moira’s sprawled on the pavement.
Ree’s heart is thudding in her chest, and the adrenaline is doing interesting things to her libido. She’s pressed against Hardin from cheek to knees, and as handsome as he is in a suit, he’s way too overdressed for how close they’re standing.
If that was VIP protection, I should get into trouble more often.
Moira’s staring down at her scuffed knees as though she�
�s listening to something, head cocked to one side as she considers whatever she’s gleaning from it. Ree’s used to it, but she’s impressed Hardin hasn’t bailed. When Riona’s littlest sister snaps a cutting gaze up at Hardin through thick black bangs, she doesn’t blink.
Hardin doesn’t speak.
They’re both ridiculous, Ree thinks, and opens her mouth to tell them so. Moira breaks the silence first, clambering to her feet like a spider.
“You ripped my jeans!”
Ree looks down at the black denim, which already looks like it’s been used as bedding by a hibernating bear. Her eyebrows migrate to her hairline.
“Nobody will even notice,” her boyfriend assures her youngest sister, disingenuous as Lucifer.
Moira stares at him for another taut moment, and then grins, sharklike.
“I like you. You’re funny. Ree, you can keep him for a bit. If you like him.”
“I like him,” Ree confirms in the short and declarative sentences her sister seems to prefer. No ambiguity means no mistakes. Hardin cuts them a look, but Ree soldiers on.
“Mom and Dad?”
“Inside. Dad’s cooking. Mom’s…”
“Supervising?”
“Yeah. Supervising. Are you procrastinating?” Moira never minces words, and Ree blushes pink.
“Maybe. Is-”
Moira nods. “Ro’s here, but she’s helping in the kitchen already. No procrastinating, though. Wouldn’t work. They know you’re here.”
Hardin’s jaw twitches as he bites back a smile; Ree sees it and purses her own lips in response. “Do they?”
“Sure. Told ‘em so. We’d better go in. Hey.” Moira says, and it’s clear who she’s addressing. Hardin freezes. Ree rests her hand on his arm to steady his nerves. It doesn’t work; he’s strung tighter than a trip-wire.
“What?”
“How d’you learn to do that? That Secret Service shit.”
“It’s classified,” he retorts, and Ree bites the inside of her cheek not to laugh. Moira remains undaunted.
“Can you show me?”
“No!” Hardin blurts out at once, and Ree breaks, wheezing out an anaemic laugh.
“Good man,” Professor Oisin Araby says from the open doorway, and Hardin freezes in his spot like a rabbit on a country road. Ree, meanwhile, bounds up the stairs and into her father’s embrace.
“Hullo, darling mine. It’s been too long!”
“Dad,” Ree says with an affectionate laugh. “I saw you fifteen minutes ago.”
“And I’ve missed you with every breath since.”
“Dad, you know Hardin,” Riona says as he ascends the steps and joins her on the stoop.
“Captain Hardin. Welcome to our high-volume home. I’m glad you could join us today.”
“It’s my pleasure, Professor Araby. Thank you for the invitation.” His manners are so starched even Ree’s ballet-perfect posture ratchets up that last notch. Her father notices, of course, and grins.
“Right, and we’ve kept you standing on the threshold like a vampire. Come in, make yourself at home. Ree tells us you’re a military man.”
“Jesus, Dad.” Riona moans, squiring Hardin into the gracious foyer. “Let him take his shoes off before you pounce.”
Oisin waves her concern away with the insouciance of a man who’s raised seven daughters to adulthood. “I’m sure the man can multitask.”
***
He’s lucky the gremlin hadn’t protested when he’d whipped Ree out of the way of her attack. He’d like to blame it on instinct, but the fact is that it was rank sentimentality.
Riona’s safe, he tells his jangling nerves. It was her sister, and you’re here in her family ho- Holy shit.
Hardin has seen luxury before; he’s been privy to it for as long as he’s been working contracts for despots. He’s seen palaces and private islands and penthouses and enjoyed every showpiece. This is nothing at all like that.
The Araby family home might be grand, but it isn’t ostentatious. Gracious windows let in warm light and the ceilings soar. There’s art on the wall, and he’d bet it’s even original. There’s music from somewhere, and he takes a second to realize it’s singing in the kitchen. Everything speaks to the sort of life that hasn’t ever had to ask, How Much?
Before the bile can rise, Ree gives his hand a little squeeze, bringing Hardin back into the moment.
“Everything okay?” Riona asks, and he nods.
“Just admiring.”
She purses her lips, so he knows she’s caught the non-answer. She’s kind enough not to mention it. At her side, Moira scoffs in sheer disbelief. He raises an eyebrow at her.
She grins, unrepentant. “Ree, they’re on to the sea shanties already. Fair warning.”
“Oh, well,” Ree says. “They’ve started early.”
Shanty — started early?
“Is that a drink?”
Moira bawls out a laugh at his ignorance, and Hardin fights the urge to bounce her off the wall. Her father’s standing right there, and he’s trying to make a good impression on the man.
“Speaking of,” the redheaded man asks. “Would you like one?”
Desperately.
“No, thank you, sir,” he lies.
Ree stares at her father. “It’s two in the afternoon, Dad.”
“Which means there’s at least four hours until dinner, and we started the day with wine at ten-thirty. Let the man have some liquid courage.” He’s barely finished the sentence with the singing abruptly crescendos into a shriek.
“NO, MOM, DON’T-”
The collective howl from the kitchen ends in a sticky-sounding silence.
For a moment, the survivors outside of the blast radius try to determine whether it’s safe to enter. Nobody moves until Moira skitters to the corner, tilts her head around it, and then reports back. “It’s a shit-show,” she says. She sounds delighted. “Mashed potato everywhere. She tried to use the induction blender!”
“Oh,” Hardin deadpans, before he can think better of it. “So that’s where you get it from.” The silence is deafening, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ree’s mouth fall open.
“What was it she tried to make?” Oisin asks, scrupulously neutral. Ree hides her face in her hands.
“Pancakes. There was batter on the ceiling.”
“Ah, my darling,” Oisin mutters. “How is it you don’t starve?”
Riona has the grace to look embarrassed. “Takeout?”
“It’s awful for you, Riona.”
“Sure, but it’s convenient.” It’s a well-tread argument, warm with familiarity and affection.
“Do I have to make you freezer meals for when I’m away?” Hardin asks. He’s been putting Ree’s kitchen to good use; even Becca’s started scavenging for left-overs. He can manage meal prep for a week. When he looks up, Riona’s father is looking at him with wry regard; Hardin would give all he owns to know what the man is thinking.
“Right. I think I’ll want that drink now,” Riona’s father announces to the air at large and claps a hand on Hardin’s shoulder. “Come along, lad, and join me.” It’s an affably worded order.
Ah, Hardin thinks as he’s guided down the hall towards the kitchen. That’s where she gets that from.
***
“Ssssssssso,” Moira hisses under her breath once their father has led Hardin away. Ree shoots her a flat look.
“No.”
“But-”
“Not today, Moira. Not here.” Ree’s voice is the sharpest she’s ever heard, and it catches Moira’s attention right away. Her little sister is about as perceptive as a slab of petrified wood, but she can take a direct order well.
“Oh. Right. Okay,” Moira agrees.
“Appreciate it.” Then Ree takes pity on her sister and leans in with a sly smile. “But whatever you’re thinking?”
“Yeah?” It’s breathless. The only thing Moira likes more than her video games is gossip. Ree draws out the tension until Moir
a’s vibrating with excitement.
“Solid maybe,” Ree teases, plastering an innocent expression on her face as she follows Hardin's trail. Moira’s indignant squawk follows her.
“Oh, you troll!”
The disaster zone is worse than she expected; there’s mashed potato painting the side of the espresso machine and plastered onto the fridge… six feet away.
“Mum,” Ree says, stepping in for a kiss. “Did someone let you out of the lab again?”
Hardin chooses that moment to step into the room, Oisin taking up the rear. Both of them have a finger of whiskey; Ree would bet her autographed ballet slippers it’s Knappogue Castle 1951. The older man takes one look at the mess and barks out a laugh.
“Niamh, lamb, what on earth-” He sounds bemused, but not surprised, at the sight of his wife trying to finger-comb chunks of potato out of her black hair.
“Someone had to peel the potatoes,” Doctor Niamh Araby says, guileless as a snake, even as she tries to dab potato off of her shirt. “When I noticed Roisin had already done so, I thought I should get a head start on mashing them.”
Ree stares at her mother, trying to decide if it’s worth making a comment, when her twin gets there first.
“Yeah, Ma — but they’re mashed potatoes,” Ro says. “Why did you use a blender?!”
Ree would love to ask the same question, but she despises being talked over. Especially by Roisin. She’s become team captain of every sport she’s ever lettered in — which is most of them — and it shows.
“Hi Roisin,” Ree says with frosty politeness. Ro nods back.
“A pleasure to meet you.” Hardin’s careful to keep his voice neutral and face blank. He’s studiously ignoring the fracas. “Riona’s described everyone to a T, no small feat.”
Ro’s eyes narrow.
“I bet she has,” Roisin says. It’s strange to hear sarcasm from Ree’s mouth; the resemblance is that uncanny. Ree bristles. Hardin gets the distinct impression that if she were a cat, her tail would look like a bottlebrush.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Ro?” His kitten snaps, green eyes flashing and ready for battle. Her twin squares her shoulders, an alley-cat ready for a spat.
