He reached up and touched the blond waves that fell around her shoulders, running his fingertips over them. Then he swept them slowly to the side, exposing the nape of her neck.

God, he’d made his mind up, hadn’t he.

He’d chosen his path.

“Can I kiss you,” he said roughly. Because it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to ask first.

Her head dropped. “Please . . .”

He went in for her lovely neck, pressing his lips to her skin. That wasn’t nearly enough, but he didn’t trust himself to go any further or even put his hands on her waist—if he did, he wasn’t letting go until she was under him and he was in her again.

“Grier,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Yes . . .”

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

Sometimes emotions were like a locomotive for words: Once they got a reveal rolling, there was no slowing the thing down, no brakes strong enough to grab onto the tracks of your throat.

“I love you,” he said with more breath than syllable.

She heard it, though. Dear God, she heard it, because she inhaled on a hiss.

Grier whipped around so fast, her hair spun out in a halo, and even though his heart was pounding, he didn’t look away.

When her mouth opened, he put his finger to her lips and shook his head. “I just needed you to know. Once. I just needed to say it . . . once. I realize I haven’t known you long enough or well enough, and I’m very aware that I’m not the man for you . . . but some things need to be said.”

What didn’t require airtime was the terror inside his skin.

As much as he wanted to do the right thing, his old boss had him by the short hairs: There was no sacrifice too great to ensure Grier’s safety. Even Isaac’s own salvation. Even Matthias’s downfall.

A throat being cleared discreetly had him looking up. In the glass over the sink, he saw her father standing just inside the kitchen—and out of respect for the man’s daughter, Isaac stepped back.

“Coffee, Father?” Grier said evenly as she leaned to the side and got two mugs from the cupboard.

“Yes, thank you.”

Isaac could feel the guy’s eyes going back and forth, but he sure as hell wasn’t answering any of those questions.

And neither was Grier, evidently. “Are we all set?” she asked.

Instead of replying, the man cleared his throat again. No doubt because he was choking on all the stay-away-fromhims and the don’t-touch-my-daughters.

But he didn’t need to worry. He was too late on the latter, but the former . . . was going to be taken care of.

“Father? Are we all set?”

“Everyone will arrive tomorrow morning—”

“Tomorrow morning?”