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“She's expecting you at the Lemon LLC headquarters at two. I'm texting you the address now. I already told her you’d help.”

“Of course you did.”

I hang up and stand there for a moment, staring at nothing. Wren Sinclair. It's been years. The memory of that night surfaces despite pushing it away ever since and pretending like it never happened. Wren in my kitchen late one night after driving Jen home from a party. The way she looked at me across the counter while I made them both coffee to sober up. The almost-moment when she leaned in, smelling like strawberries and freedom, before Jen stumbled back in from the bathroom.

I shake my head. Ancient history. Water under the bridge. She was overwhelmed by the attention from the hit TV show she starred in. And me? I was a lonely widower who had no business noticing how her eyes caught the light. I left for a job that took me away from home for the longest time.

The next thing I heard, she was getting married. It was a relief to hear that because I could finally stop wondering if her cherry lips would be as soft as it looked. But I also had feelings I couldn’t put into words about my daughter’s best friend. Even though she was thirteen years younger than me. She sent me an invite, but I made sure I was out of the country on some job.

I walk out of the office, leaning against the doorway, watching my team train. I’ve built this company to handle corporate security and executive protection. I don't do celebrity babysitting anymore. And I don't take cases with personal connections.

But that almost-moment keeps playing like a film reel on the screen of my mind.

“Everything okay?” Marcus approaches.

“Yeah.” I shrug, pocketing my phone. “Just Jen being Jen.”

“The incompetent twins need at least another week before they're field-ready.”

“They need more than a week.” I sigh, watching as Jones attempts the takedown again and trips over his own feet. “Cut them loose if they don't improve by Friday. We can't afford mistakes.”

“Will do.” Marcus follows my gaze. “You heading out?”

“Got a consultation at two. Potential new client.”

“Anyone interesting?”

I hesitate. “Lemon LLC. Jen’s friend’s in some PR nightmare.”

Marcus raises an eyebrow. “Wren Sinclair? She's been all over the news.”

“You know her?”

“Know of her. My wife loves her. Tries to get me to use one of those tropical face masks.” He gives me a searching look. “Thought you didn't do celebrities anymore.”

“I don't. Just assessing the situation as a favor to Jen.”

Marcus grins. “Last referral from Jen was that reality TV star who thought her houseplants were bugged.”

“Don't remind me.” I grab my jacket from the office. “I'll be back later. Try not to let them injure each other.”

The drive to Lemon LLC's headquarters gives me time to review what I know about Wren Sinclair. Which isn't muchbeyond what Jen's told me and what I've seen in passing on magazine covers. Foster kid turned actress turned entrepreneur. Created a skincare empire after leaving Hollywood. Now being accused of stealing her concept.

And somewhere in between, she got married, had a son. I clench the steering wheel. Did I hear news about her getting divorced? I realize I know nothing about her personal life. Jen must’ve mentioned but I didn’t pay much attention.

The Lemon LLC building comes into view. It’s a sleek and modern structure with a subtle lemon motif in the architecture and a large billboard displaying their products.

A small crowd of photographers loiters across the street, cameras ready. I park my Bronco in the underground garage and take the private elevator up, scanning for security weaknesses out of habit. The lobby system is decent but outdated. Three cameras, a single guard. I could think of a dozen ways to bypass it all.

The receptionist directs me to the executive floor. Existing imagery of the products and Lemon LLC campaigns were added throughout the office. Everything about the space speaks of careful curation—clean lines, cozy textures, warm lighting, subtle citrus scent in the air. It's impressive. Professional.

“Mr. Langston?” A polished blonde woman with a tablet approaches. “I'm Lily, Ms. Sinclair's assistant. She's expecting you.”

I follow her through a series of corridors, noting security cameras, access points, vulnerable areas. Out of habit, I count steps between exits, identify chokepoints. The place wasn't designed with security in mind.

“Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Langston is here.”

Lily leads me into a corner office and then closes the door behind her.