Full Throttle(2)

“I don’t know about last.” His frown kicked into a grin. “I’m not sure that’s even possible. I’m Puerto Rican, man. My oats are endless.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe that Latin lover shtick actually works.”

“What can I say? Chicks dig my Rico Suave.”

“Rico Suave?” Dan turned, cocking his head to study him. “Nah. I’d say you’re more of a low-budget Enrique Iglesias.”

Steady punched him in the arm before quickly reining the conversation back in. Experience had taught him it was either that or devolve into a good, solid hour of swapping insults. Fun? Sure. But not at all productive. “The deal is, I’m thirty-three years old. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s time to start thinking about”—he made a rolling motion with his hand—“commitment.”

And would you look at that? He said the word without choking on it.

Dan turned to face him, the picture of shock and awe. Seriously, George W. Bush would’ve been proud. “Well, well, well.” He shook his sandy blond head. “Will wonders never cease?”

“I know.” Steady shrugged. “I’m a bit surprised myself. Or maybe I’ve been drinking too much of the Kool-Aid being served back home. I mean, you have noticed the rate at which our teammates are taking the plunge into happily-ever-after, haven’t you?”

“Staggering, isn’t it?”

In the last couple of years, six, count them, six of the BKI boys had strapped on the ol’ ball and chain. And talk about wonders never ceasing? They actually made the condition look…well…good. Preferable even. God help me.

“Or maybe this sudden attack of fidelity has something to do with the way you’ve been staring at”—Dan glanced around to make sure they were out of earshot of anyone who might be listening—“you know who for the last three days.”

The blood drained from Steady’s head, leaving his face cold and his forehead clammy. “What do you mean?” he asked, shooting his cuffs and tilting his head from side to side in an attempt to loosen the tension that gripped his neck. Suddenly his clothes were too tight. He wanted to chalk it up to the fact that he was accustomed to wearing combat gear or jeans and a biker jacket. But deep down he knew the real reason his suit coat was now a straightjacket, his necktie a silk anaconda, was because Dan’s assessment hit far too close to home. “How have I been staring at her?”

“Like Winnie-the-Pooh stares at a pot of honey.”

“Pssht. You’re imagining things. If I’ve been watching her, it’s only because that’s what we’re being”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“paid to do.”

“Yeah, but there’s watching and then there’s watching,” Dan insisted.

Steady squeezed the beer bottle so hard it was a wonder the thing didn’t shatter. Dan was right. Since President Thompson had tasked him with flying to the other side of the globe to help protect Abby while she attended the New Frontiers in Horticulture Convention—sí, it was a thing. Who knew?—he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. And although he hadn’t seen or heard from her in eight years, she was just as he remembered…

Slim, blond, pretty in an all-American kind of way, which seemed appropriate given she was the youngest daughter of the president of the United States. She still had those arresting green eyes that’d stopped him in his tracks when he met her on the Georgetown campus all those years ago. She still had that same sweet, luminous smile that’d fueled his fantasies back then and most of his daydreams since.

She’s too young for you, he remembered the scolding tone in Rosa’s voice. And even if she isn’t, she’s too far out of your league. You think her father wants her dating a maldito bori when he’s got a national election to win?

He’d winced at the slur while at the same time knowing his sister was right. The difference between Abby’s age and his had seemed insurmountable at the time. A gulf in life experience as wide and impassible as the vastness of space. But she was all grown up now, wasn’t she? A woman, as in whoa-man. Everything guaranteed to rev his engine in one fair-haired little package.

Unfortunately, that whole maldito bori thing hadn’t changed. Even with his multiple degrees and that Army Ranger pin stuck to the lapel of the uniform hanging in his closet back home, he was still just the son of uneducated immigrants who’d spent their lives slinging cervezas and serving rice in a greasy corner café in Miami. And any illusions he’d had that Abby didn’t care about such things was stripped from him the day of Rosa’s funeral.