Page 15 of Own

“He’s taking us for lunch too,” Nate smirks like it’s a done deal.

“On his dime,” I warn, knowing Nate will have a fight on his hands and likely enlist his sister's help. Z can’t say no to her, especially when she gets teary-eyed.

“Bet!” He runs back to the kitchen while I head out around the side of the house where my SIC waits for me.

“What’s going on?” I recognize the look in his eyes and instantly dislike it.

“Those punks from the bus, they seem to know who you are. One snuck off before we could grab him, and the guy who had his hands on Hester is saying if we don’t let the rest of them go, the friend will spread the word about her.”

Easy enough to handle. “Get his name out of them and find a place for them to rest.”

My friend’s already shaking his head. “The big mouth says his buddy is related to Arturo Santos.”

Letting out a long sigh, I can feel a migraine coming on. The Santos brothers may be taking over from their deceased father; however, their uncle Arturo is a cartel boss in Mexico, and I’d rather not go to war with him over someone he might give a shit about. Jacob and Jordan have always been thorns in his side, so he doesn’t care too much about them; this nephew, though, he might, and I can’t risk that. Not yet.

“Call him, ask for a meeting.” Before I can finish, he pulls out his phone. “And, Z, don’t give Hester away. Just tell him we need to speak business.”

“That a good idea?”

“It’s going to have to be.” I really didn’t want this type of trouble right now.

Heading back inside as Z seeks more privacy for his call, I find Hester alone in the kitchen wiping down the table. Sliding in behind her, she jumps and tenses until I whisper in her ear, “Just me, kitten.”

She relaxes marginally before asking, “I-i-is ev-ev-everything okay?”

“It will be.” Her stutter still concerns me; hell, everything about her does. “Do you want to stop at home before you go to work?”

“Y-y-yes.” I don’t let her step out of my arms until she turns her head to look at me.

“What do I need to do to convince you to move in with me?”

Her jaw drops in shock. It’s a bold move, I know, and she likely is nowhere near ready for any type of commitment, let alone uprooting her entire world, but I’m there already, and there’s no changing my mind.

Hester’s silence speaks volumes, but it won’t deter me. And because I want her to give it more thought, I say nothing further as I lead her to the garage where my Bentley Bentayga awaits. It’s the only personal vehicle I drive after spending a small fortune to have it armored and safe for the kids when we go out alone. The Rolls-Royce Miles or Z drive us around in is also armored; I just prefer the Bentley.

The drive through San Diego reminds me why I love this city. The architecture, the small-town feeling, the nature, the ocean breeze; everything has its place here, and I enjoy the easy-going temperament of most everyone.

Pulling up in front of Hester’s building, I don’t like it any more than I did the other day. When she glances back at me while leading the way, I know she can tell from the stony look on my face that I don’t either.

Reaching around her for her keys, she doesn’t fight me as I take them and unlock her door, keeping her behind me as I enter first. I might be what people consider a bad guy because I run guns and drugs in and out of Mexico, but I never shirk responsibility, especially when it comes to my woman and family. Their safety always comes first.

Hester closes the door quietly behind us, then walks to her armoire—a beautifully crafted, obviously refurbished piece of furniture. “Did you do this?” I ask, getting the distinct feeling she did. Individual drawers are painted to look like book spines, each with a different title, making the whole piece appear as a stack of books.

“I l-l-like t-t-o thrift-t-t.”

I hate how nervous I make her, but I enjoy hearing the quiet pride in her tone.

“It’s gorgeous. I think Scarlett would love to see it.” She blushes and turns, then grabs another pair of leggings and a thick sweater, hiding her undergarments inside so I don’t see. “Isn’t it hot out for that kind of sweater?” I swear the thing is thick as a winter puffer.

She turns and stares down at the bundle of clothes in her hands before confessing, “I c-c-can’t s-s-stay warm.”

That’s concerning, but I don’t press. Every time she speaks and stutters, embarrassment flushes her pale skin, and from the way she tries to hide her face, I know she hates it.

“Lucky for you, I’m a furnace.” My joke falls flat because now she looks like a deer in headlights. Someone did a real fucking number on this girl.

I plop down on her bed, and she scurries off to the bathroom to change. Without moving, I look more closely at her home. Many things are nicked up, so if I had to guess, I’d say nearly everything is thrifted, and she’s taken great pride in restoring each item and making it hers.

Her quiet presence as she exits the bathroom and fidgets with the hem of her sweater tells me all I need to know. She believes I’m judging her and the way she lives. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I admire the hell out of this woman and everything she has likely endured in her short lifetime.