"This has to stop," I said, flatly.
"It does," he agreed, "And you will not be the one to stop it. You will be the one to stay here where it's safe."
"Like hell I will!" I cried.
Clint picked up my hand in one of his massive ones. Carefully, he held it with both of his and traced the lines of my palm with his large, blunt fingers.
When he looked up and looked into my eyes, his own blue orbs were full of firm resolve.
"Naomi," he said. "These men will hurt you, and this isn't your fight. I can't let that happen."
I glared.
"I'm serious," he said, "Can't we just have a nice evening?"
I shrugged. "I always want to have a nice evening with you," I admitted.
The rest of our evening was mostly good. We watched a few episodes of bad television and went to our separate bedrooms after a long hug.
I hated the sense of irritation and fear between us. I wanted it to be easy, like this morning. I wanted to laugh and joke.
That wasn’t happening right now, though, and I needed to get used to it.
When I woke up in the guest bedroom, I took a few minutes to just look around. I loved the rustic wooden walls and simple furniture. The bed was large and comfortable, with a thick white bedspread over the entire thing and a blue and red Navajo rug at my feet.
My stomach growled at the smell of cooking breakfast, and I finally crawled out of bed and stood, in a t-shirt and sleep shorts, in front of the window.
Huh. That’s strange, I thought. There was a small plume of smoke in the distance.
I blinked, and it was gone. I’d probably imagined it.
When I went into the adjoining guest bathroom to take a quick shower, I forgot all about it.
Walking out into the kitchen, wearing old jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, I found Clint at the stove and Brandon and Will at the table.
“Hey, Naomi!” Will said cheerfully. “Brandon and I told Clint that, just because he has a pretty girl now doesn’t mean he can stop cooking us Sunday breakfasts forever.”
I grinned at him. “I’ve been getting in the way of you guys having food you don’t have to cook? Perish the thought.”
Brandon shook his head and got up, walking over to the coffee pot.
“Clint,” he said, loudly, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other man, “I’m against it.”
He paused, giving Clint a chance to ask him what he was against. When he just kept poking at the bacon, Brandon continued, “I’m against morning people. It’s downright unnatural.”
“Says you,” Clint grumbled.
“Can I help with anything?” I asked, looking around at the mountain of toast and pitcher of juice already on the table.
“Nope,” Clin
t said.
“Good morning to you, too,” I told him.
He stopped poking the bacon and put the spatula down. “Brandon, that’s on you,” he said.
Turning away from the stove, he smiled at me and walked over, taking my shoulders in his hands and pulling me close for a slow kiss.