Page 14 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

? Two Months into this New Life ?

The new apartment had an extra bedroom and was the reverse of the old one.

Splashing orange and red sunsets graced the patio side.

The view of the apartment gardens and pool only added their colors.

The similarities between this and the old apartment were with the beige carpet, white blinds, and white marbled tiles in kitchen and bathrooms. The floor plan differed because of the extra bedroom, and the bathrooms and kitchen were larger.

Hunt explored the exterior to identify any security concerns.

Other than the sliding glass doors to the patio, there weren’t any.

The interior, however, was a mess. Close to two weeks since the move, Cait and Adele had focused on getting clear from the other apartment.

The completion earned a big checkmark on Cait’s chore list, but he could tell the process had compromised her energy.

His possessions and the boxes from the delivery of her home goods crowded the living room and bedroom.

Hunt flexed to restack for more open space and studied some of Cait’s bigger furniture.

Who would have thought an antique oak china cupboard would be a part of his life?

His parents, in their anarchist, isolationist mountain living, didn’t have one.

Hell, he hadn’t even had a bed. Grandma Juanita, his foster mother, had one, but she never trusted his teenage self around it. “Anything breakable in these boxes?”

“Probably.” Cait opened the freezer and selected two containers at random for dinner.

She must have cooked while he was gone. Or Adele had.

She rubbed her temple again, a constant since he’d gotten home.

He assumed headache from the traumatic brain injury and would ask later.

She popped one container in the microwave and came to the kitchen doorway.

He shifted the last few boxes while she watched. At least they could move around and not cause an avalanche.

He paused to gaze at her.

“What?” Cait’s pouty voice wasn’t to be messed with.

“You’re tired.”

“Moving is exhausting.”

The microwave dinged. The aroma of sweet and sour had him getting to the bathroom to wash his hands. No towels unpacked yet.

“Hunt, which do you want? Beef stroganoff or sweet and sour chicken?” She turned and gasped. Hand over her heart, she glared at him. “You are too quiet. I didn’t hear you move.”

He stopped to take a paper towel off the roll and stood in the doorway to watch her movements. Better. But still not the smoothness of the Cait he knew. Did he care? No. As long as she was here and his. He tossed the towel in the makeshift trash. “Job description.”

She smirked and stirred the food. “You don’t have to be quiet at home.”

“Habit. Keeps me in practice. What’s all this?” He pointed to the stacks of paper across the island.

“Separation papers, letters that I sent to the unit, and receipts for things I need to submit for Army reimbursement.”

Hunt fingered the receipt pile. “We need to talk money with all this upheaval. Your disability will run out soon. We’re in minimal use and most things are withdrawing from my checking account, but I’d like us to manage the bills together.”

“I agree. I’ve spent a good amount of cash trying to get settled again, clothes and such. Trying to stick to my hazard pay as a budget. But losing my Army pay might not be the problem we thought. I’ve been offered a job.”

His first “hell no” response, he stifled. Feet planted and hands on his hips, he let some confusion show on his face. “Repeat that? A job?”

She crossed to him and took his hand. The bruising around her eyes topped his concern. “A job? Cait?”

“Quaid was here the day we moved and offered me a job.” The microwave dinged again. “Food is hot. Let’s sit.”

Hunt held tight to her good hand, stopping her movement. “You’re a doctor. What does he need you for?”

Cait moved closer. “He and Mackey Reynolds have opened a business, a security business.”

She slid her hand from his clasp and went to the microwave. He stayed silent while she used one hand to organize both containers on the counter, found silverware, and stood chewing her lip.

“I’ve got it. Go sit.” He came in behind her, lifted the containers, and followed her to the table.

She arranged the silverware. “Water? Coke?”

“Coke.” He held her chair, waiting for her to return from the refrigerator.

She grabbed napkins, too, and he stayed in place. Quaid and Mackey apparently had news he’d missed while out of country. Wouldn’t be the first time, but the info rubbed him the wrong way. Being familiar with their talents, why did Cait have to be involved?

He took the drinks from her and helped her sit, then pulled his meal to the seat beside hers and sat, too.

He glanced around the room, connecting the kitchen table to the matching oak china cupboard.

Making himself take time to open his coke, stir his hot food, and acquaint himself with Cait’s possessions gave him a minute to think. “Where’s the green table?”

“Your workroom.”

“My workroom?”

“Second bedroom. Gun safe, your navy equipment, a table to work at.”

“I have a room for this?”

“Yes, your space.”

“Where is your space?”

“Everything else. I mean I’ll organize an art corner in the living room, but the kitchen is already my fiddle space.”

“Fiddle space?”

“Yes. A space of your own.”

He went silent and struggled for what to say, emotion crashing in ways he had no ability to process.

She waved a hand at the living room. “I’ve taken over what has been yours. I’m trying to preserve some privacy for you.”

“I’ve never minded you being in my space. That’s the God-honest truth.”

“Still, it’s necessary. We can’t live in each other’s pockets. First, we don’t and won’t going forward. But when you come home, I don’t want you to find only me here. I want you to see love, safety, consistency. I want you to recognize you in this space, us in this space.”

He studied her eyes, finding the determination yet vulnerability there. “Like a stronghold?”

“Yes, or safe harbor. A place for both of us.”

He’d never had a home in his life. Wouldn’t be able to put one together if his life depended on it, a fact he’d ably demonstrated by the state of his apartment. This was theirs.

“I concur. Safe harbor.”

She nodded at him, and if he saw a flash of tears when she bent to take a bite of the cooling food, he wasn’t going to point it out.

He paid attention to his own food for several bites and took a long drink of the cola. “Tell me about this job offer?” Proud of his reasonable tone, he took another drink.

She left her chair and sorted through a stack of papers on the island. She palmed a black business card and handed it to him.

Hunt studied the card. “QM International Security. I assume the Q is for Quaid and the M is for Mackey? They are both out? We saw them four months ago. This was not mentioned.” Had this been in progress already?

“I’ve only talked to Quaid. He left the CIA after he got hurt. I haven’t seen Mackey, so I can’t say. I didn’t ask.”

Hunt waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. What’s their goal?”

“International bodyguards for business travelers, missing persons, human trafficking, and something about a DOD contract. I didn’t ask for specifics because I wouldn’t be involved in any cases.”

“What do they want you for?” She wasn’t even well yet. How could they be so blind to not see how she struggled?

“Chief Medical Officer.” Her eyes darted over his face. She wouldn’t find anything because he had that shit locked down.

Protectiveness raged, but he wasn’t itching for a fight. He used his napkin to wipe his mouth. Damn if this sweet and sour wasn’t really good, and he couldn’t even enjoy it. “What does the title mean in their context?”

Cait had her fork in her hand but wasn’t eating. “Train their medics, track the wellness and injuries of their people, keep their medical bay operational, put a high level of professionalism on the care of their people.”

Appeased by the description, he stopped for a few bites of food. “No missions or cases, whatever they want to call it.”

“No. Not any. It’s a home base issue – administrative, welfare, and reputation.”

“Pay pretty high?”

Cait rose again and took a packet off the top of the island stack. “Here.”

He shifted his container aside and pulled out the contents. “Who is Elizabeth Greer? Why does she sound familiar?”

“She planned our wedding. She’s Quaid’s aunt, and serves as their chief financial officer.”

“I remember her. Blonde, slender, killer blue eyes, lost her son in Afghanistan.”

“Yes. That’s her.”

He skimmed the CMO job description, studying the details. They’d been thorough. He flipped the page. Salary stood out and he swallowed hard. He glanced at Cait. “You studied this, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s…” Hunt cleared his throat. Together they would hit a new tax bracket. Christ.

“They really want me. They get what challenges I have, and they’re willing to back me up.”

“Why?”

“Because they know me. Because they want my military background. Because they want to help me recover. Because it’s a perk they can offer to get the best of the best on their payroll.”

Cait shoved her food away. “Are you bothered I’ll be making more?”

Hunt snorted. “No. I don’t care. The bills are paid, and we both manage well. What about surgery?”

“They’ll work with me. Give me the time I need, when and if retraining becomes possible.”

“It will. Can you manage both?”

“For now. Yes.”

“Seems like Quaid has it all answered.”

“Not Quaid. Elizabeth.”

He glanced over to the island. “What’s the other packet there?”

“My separation papers. I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Why?”

“Busy and couldn’t find the scissors.” She kept her eyes on the china cupboard. Another flash of guilt and sorrow pushed through his emotional control. The sacrifice of her military career for his would never sit right.