Page 5 of Only the Devil

I twist to confirm, that yes, it’s Jake Ryder, the beefy, gun wielding, GI Joe-type who played live action Captain America last weekend then stood around joking while cops swarmed around us. I spoke with him long enough to know he doesn’t live around here, which means I’ve a good idea why he’s in the coffee shop.

“I’ve got it,” Jake says, his tee stretched taut over broad shoulders and biceps.

“You always wear your T-shirts one size too small?”

His half-chuckle morphs into a wide grin as he hooks his thumbs in his belt loops, which only makes the cotton stretch tighter.

The tee’s doing overtime across linebacker shoulders and gym-rat pecs. Beard’s wilder than I remember—sun-caught gold at the ends. Hair pushed back by sunglasses: dark roots into accidental caramel. If he were even a little precious I’d blame a colorist. He’s not. Nature did that.

“If you’d like to cop a feel...” He bends his elbow, flexing his bicep into a mound.

Tempting, but I crinkle my nose in feigned disgust, fighting a smile. “Keep dreaming, GI Joe.”

His grin says he digs my joke, but it’s the eyes that catch me. An unusual green that I must not have noticed that day in the warehouse because he wore goggles and shades later when we were outside. Or maybe it’s because way too much was going on that day for me to notice something like eye color. There’s always that possibility.

“Whatever you say, shortcake.” I make a show of rolling my eyes, but his dig fits seeing as I’m about half his size.

We step to the side to make room for the patrons behind us while we wait for our orders.

“Rhodes sent you, didn’t he?”

My boss is a good guy. Having been through maybe a dozen employers before finding one who didn’t piss me off daily, I appreciate Rhodes MacMillan. Over the years, he’s been a good friend, but the whole protective big brother routine gets old. He doesn’t know when to back off.

“Better safe than sorry.” Jake reaches across the counter to take his drink.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“I’m parked down the street. Saw you enter.”

I retrieve my coffee while he sips his sweet tea and winces, then looks to the woman behind the counter and asks, “Where’s your sugar?”

I raise an eyebrow. I had their sweet tea yesterday and asked for half unsweet. He wants more sugar. Figures.

“What? They don’t make sweet tea right up here,” he says with a lazy smile.

Outside on the sidewalk there’s an open table, probably on account of the heat, but after collecting our food, I move to it so we’re not surrounded by people. I’m not sure exactly what Rhodes has hired him to do, but I have a pretty good idea.

What’s annoying is I told Rhodes no. But my annoyance is at Rhodes, not the guy who once fought for our country and then saved us last week.

Seconds later the warrior joins me, the chair grating the sidewalk as he pulls it out and flips it around, straddling it.

“No getting huffy. I won’t be in your way.” He spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence.

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, giving him a deliberate once-over. He sits perfectly still under my scrutiny, like he’s used to being evaluated. When I tap my fingers against my arm, his eyes track the movement.

The thing is, I don’t have an issue with Jake. He’s a cool guy. I like him. When he’s decked in Kevlar and firing a gun, he’s the vision of an assassin avatar. But when he’s kicked back chilling, there’s no off-putting ego. He strikes me as a fun guy with zero tough guy macho bullshit. But I don’t need protection. Rhodes, the ever-constant pain in my ass, is wasting his money.

“You’re wasting your time,” I say, going for honest and straightforward.

Jake’s gaze darts behind me.

“Ms. Jonas.”

My coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips. Behind my sunglasses, my eyes dart to Jake, who’s already pushing back from the table, his sunglasses also down, covering those green eyes and whatever he’s thinking, his loose hair tucked neatly behind each ear.

The legs of his chair scrape against concrete as he rises to his full height.

I force my expression neutral and turn toward the voice, but my free hand unconsciously moves to smooth my hair, as I’m dressed to meet with the company-hired realtor, but not necessarily HR.