She might have been checking the labels of the boxes. Or not. “I suppose they won’t.”
“You wouldn’t have put up this stuff if you were still engaged to Warrington. So it’s really not any different.”
Her lips parted, then clamped shut.
He said, “I’ll put the boxes back and—”
“No. I’m taking some.”
He would have been better off letting her take all the boxes and doing the sorting at the suite. It took so long that both their stomachs were growling, and he was fully aware that his exercises in reason — pointing out she couldn’t put up a tree in the suite and she wasn’t missing out on anything because she wouldn’t have had this stuff at the Warringtons’ — had not been appreciated.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
“They’re my boxes. I’ll carry them.”
“Stay here,” he repeated grimly, refraining from commenting that actually many were her trash bags, since she’d pulled items out of boxes and put them in bags.
She turned away as he went back outside.
And damned if she wasn’t talking to that waiter who clearly knew her and Rufus better than he should when he returned, schlepping the remaining boxes and bags from the car.
The waiter handed over the leash attached to the dog and seemed to be giving a report on his behavior. Hunter frowned. He’d thought Vanessa from housekeeping had been in charge of Rufus’ care while they were gone.
The waiter spotted him and melted away.
She looked over her shoulder, her gaze practically daring him to comment. Then her stomach growled.
“Let’s get upstairs and heat up these leftovers,” he said.
Rufus gave a happy yip.
At least one of them was happy.
* * *
They watched Chevy Chase in
Christmas Vacation
on TV while they ate leftovers from the shelter, followed by pumpkin and apple pie Manny brought from the kitchen for dessert. Hunter sat in an upholstered chair and she on the couch. Neither of them had said much.
Once when she laughed at Chevy Chase marooned in the attic, he looked at her as if she might have belonged at the business end of a scientist’s microscope, but later she noticed him smile at the squirrel rampaging in the house. So that was progress. Not that she was trying to reform the man or anything.
It was simple human compassion to be concerned.
Especially after that reaction at the shelter’s Thanksgiving Dinner. He’d looked as if he expected to be shot any second. And as if that expectation made him all the more determined to stand his ground.
The news came on, led by a piece about another shelter giving out meals.
“I don’t think I thanked you for yet helping at the shelter,” she said.
“No problem.”
But it had been a problem. She was sure of it. Something about it had bothered him and —
He didn’t move, yet she felt the shift in his intensity. She realized the anchor was teasing a piece to come after a commercial break about the King of Bariavak’s surgery.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked abruptly.
He looked at her, then back to the screen as if the merits of the breakfast food being extolled there required great concentration. “Media gives us an idea of what the general public knows.”
“I don’t mean watching the news. This.” She gestured around the suite. “Me. Princess school.”
“Princess sch—?” He’d almost grinned. At least she thought that’s where his mouth had been headed until he clamped down on it. His voice was even. “It’s my job.”
“Why? I mean why do you do security for State,” she added quickly, because she guessed he was about to answer the
why
with
because my boss told me to
.
“It’s a good job. And I’m good at it.”
“There are a lot of other government agencies involved in security or law enforcement or—”
“News is coming back on. Don’t you want to see this?”
Damn him. Of course she did.
As she watched the clips of the King of Bariavak and listened to information about his being in D.C. in preparation for
“You wouldn’t have put up this stuff if you were still engaged to Warrington. So it’s really not any different.”
Her lips parted, then clamped shut.
He said, “I’ll put the boxes back and—”
“No. I’m taking some.”
He would have been better off letting her take all the boxes and doing the sorting at the suite. It took so long that both their stomachs were growling, and he was fully aware that his exercises in reason — pointing out she couldn’t put up a tree in the suite and she wasn’t missing out on anything because she wouldn’t have had this stuff at the Warringtons’ — had not been appreciated.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
“They’re my boxes. I’ll carry them.”
“Stay here,” he repeated grimly, refraining from commenting that actually many were her trash bags, since she’d pulled items out of boxes and put them in bags.
She turned away as he went back outside.
And damned if she wasn’t talking to that waiter who clearly knew her and Rufus better than he should when he returned, schlepping the remaining boxes and bags from the car.
The waiter handed over the leash attached to the dog and seemed to be giving a report on his behavior. Hunter frowned. He’d thought Vanessa from housekeeping had been in charge of Rufus’ care while they were gone.
The waiter spotted him and melted away.
She looked over her shoulder, her gaze practically daring him to comment. Then her stomach growled.
“Let’s get upstairs and heat up these leftovers,” he said.
Rufus gave a happy yip.
At least one of them was happy.
* * *
They watched Chevy Chase in
Christmas Vacation
on TV while they ate leftovers from the shelter, followed by pumpkin and apple pie Manny brought from the kitchen for dessert. Hunter sat in an upholstered chair and she on the couch. Neither of them had said much.
Once when she laughed at Chevy Chase marooned in the attic, he looked at her as if she might have belonged at the business end of a scientist’s microscope, but later she noticed him smile at the squirrel rampaging in the house. So that was progress. Not that she was trying to reform the man or anything.
It was simple human compassion to be concerned.
Especially after that reaction at the shelter’s Thanksgiving Dinner. He’d looked as if he expected to be shot any second. And as if that expectation made him all the more determined to stand his ground.
The news came on, led by a piece about another shelter giving out meals.
“I don’t think I thanked you for yet helping at the shelter,” she said.
“No problem.”
But it had been a problem. She was sure of it. Something about it had bothered him and —
He didn’t move, yet she felt the shift in his intensity. She realized the anchor was teasing a piece to come after a commercial break about the King of Bariavak’s surgery.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked abruptly.
He looked at her, then back to the screen as if the merits of the breakfast food being extolled there required great concentration. “Media gives us an idea of what the general public knows.”
“I don’t mean watching the news. This.” She gestured around the suite. “Me. Princess school.”
“Princess sch—?” He’d almost grinned. At least she thought that’s where his mouth had been headed until he clamped down on it. His voice was even. “It’s my job.”
“Why? I mean why do you do security for State,” she added quickly, because she guessed he was about to answer the
why
with
because my boss told me to
.
“It’s a good job. And I’m good at it.”
“There are a lot of other government agencies involved in security or law enforcement or—”
“News is coming back on. Don’t you want to see this?”
Damn him. Of course she did.
As she watched the clips of the King of Bariavak and listened to information about his being in D.C. in preparation for
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