Page 139 of What We Bury

He kisses me on the forehead and pulls me in closer, and for some reason a flood of emotion pricks the back of my eyes.

I bury my face in his chest and breathe.

THIRTY-EIGHT

HOLDEN

Sunday at Pinecrest Country Club smells like fresh-cut grass and entitlement. I guess that’s the kind of snooty smell a six-figure membership fee gets you.

I’m in navy chinos, a white polo, and loafers without socks—I fucking hate it when people don’t wear socks, but I’m trying to blend in.

Knox is in khakis and a button-down that looks like he dislocated a shoulder to get into. Anyone watching us would clock him for the ex-military he is, but the people who come to Pinecrest are the kind who employ people like him, which means they’ll assume he’s on someone’s payroll. Which makes him the kind of person they’ll glance at but ignore. Knox is invisible by being too visible.

I’ve already toured the gym and mapped the locker room from the door—Italian tile, frosted-glass shower stalls, a signature scent piped through around the clock.

Knox took a seat in the restaurant and has been there ever since, scoping out Hudson.

Our target finished his round of golf at 11:03. The guy’s fit in the polished way money buys. His sandy hair is going silver at the temples. He’s wearing a white polo, pressed khakis, and a smarmy smile.

He golfed with a heavier guy in his fifties who we’ll run later, but now they’re at the clubhouse bar, drinking single malts and laughing about something I can’t hear.

I’ve been nursing a club soda at the far end of the same bar for twenty minutes.

This is the part I’m good at. The hunt.

My phone buzzes.

Knox:

Milo’s here.

I look up.

What the actual fuck?

Milo strides through the bar’s side entrance from the direction of the staff corridor, wearing a forest-green polo with HARDEN HARDWARE stitched in white over the chest, and a matching baseball cap. He’s carrying a clipboard and a roll of bracket hardware. There’s a man in chef’s whites walking with him, animated, gesturing toward the kitchen.

I don’t react.

Knox materializes at my elbow. “Told you not to tell him.”

“I didn’t expect him to rock up.”

“Man can’t help himself.”

We watch Milo across the room. He glances over. I half expect him to wave like an excited child, but he manages to rein that in. He does grin like an idiot, though.

“What’s he delivering?” Knox asks when Milo turns back to the guy he’s with.

“No fucking clue.”

“His chaos is a problem.”

“Yep.”

We both settle in, our gazes moving back to our target. Hudson laughs at something his companion said. The sound carries, pulling a few glances their way. They ignore it, men who have no concept of boundaries.

Fucker.