Page 53 of Things I Read About

Quit thinking about her, idiot.

I finally make it to the car that’s waiting for me, thanks to Fergus. He is a solid boss and will be a great partner, but when it comes to Clark Industries, he’s almost maniacal. Which we all understand.

The Clarks are a huge security contract, basically our entire European branch, and not just personal security, either. Their empire needs building security, vault systems, special vehicles, and so on.

We handle all of it.

And I’m close—so close—to being done babysitting little billionaire brats and their idiotic friends.

Soon, I’ll be working on big picture planning, whole security systems, and solutions for businesses and networks—not just drugged out teens with more money than God.

Like that moron in Park City. What hell it was to spend my day watching him when I knew she was nearby. Those were the longest couple days of my life, knowing come evening, I’d seeher.

Sally.

I curse at myself as I pull into Dallas traffic. I know why I didn’t get her number. She’s not the only one with obsessive tendencies. No one gets that good at the piano without being obsessed.

My obsession is different.

I would’ve memorized everything about her and started figuring out her life. Now, I can only wonder about all the things I would have triple checked.

Is she completely safe? Can her passwords be hacked? Does she have any flags on her from other security agencies, like a past stalker? Does she have protection set up on her devices, her car, her apartment? Or house?

If she’s my age with a doctorate, I bet she has a house. And it’s likely not secure.

Hell, knowing what little I do, she probably forgets to lock her doors. I bet she has an alarm she doesn’t set.

All of it kills me. But knowing for certain would kill me even more. I’d be checking up on her all the time.

Something she sure as hell wouldn’t want.

She didn’t even give me a last name.

And I was about to actually put myself out there. Ask her to be real with me, come on a trip, or let me visit her. See her again, somehow.

What a chump.

All for a glorious, downright ungodly set of tits.

I mean, it’s embarrassing how much I’ve thought about them. And her eyes, peeking out from under her shiny hair. Her little laugh. The way her lips would part when she stared off into the abyss, losing her surroundings entirely, probably writing concertos or something in her mind. Totally unsafe. And adorable.

The way she looked at me, though. The way she looked down at the piano keys. The way she had my past pegged, and still wanted to know so much more. To know me.

Okay, so it wasn’t just her rack.

Damn it. You just missed your exit, dickhead.

I grip the steering wheel so hard it squeaks.

Six months of this crap, and now I’m in her town. Just great. Fantastic.

At least I have this job to distract me. I was redirected from Phoenix in a rush, so I haven’t read the full file. I try to recall what I know during the drive to the theater.

Canton family, Canton International, based in Oklahoma. Started as a mom-and-pop stationary business, expanded nationally into gifts and art and books. Then expanded internationally. Retail stores. Big-box partnerships. American industry royalty, up there with the Waltons and Walmart.

Five daughters, with a credible threat from an ex-con. Unclear which sister is the target.

The famous writer, Canton 2, has Dean, another contractor with the firm, as her head of security. He’s solid, a good co-worker, if I’m using the term loosely. He also covers Canton 2’s fancy football talking-head husband. The three of them are leaving for Los Angeles.