Protective Duty. Jessica Patch R.

Just so you know, Bryn, I’m about to tell Holt that he needs to stay here with you if you won’t let me.” He turned to Holt. “If you aren’t going undercover, can you sleep over? I assume that Lexus is an undercover vehicle.”

      “It is.”

      Eric dared another glance at Bryn and ignored her seething expression. He’d risk his life for her, and if that meant going against her wishes, then tough.

      * * *

      Bryn didn’t mind Holt wolfing down her barbecued chicken or her baked beans. What she did mind was the way fear had frozen her feet to the pavement. She was FBI. Trained. Eric had prayed, but she’d also frozen at offering one up herself even though crying out to God had crossed her mind. She’d had enough rejection so she’d stayed paralyzed—her feet and heart.

      This was the third time the assailant had come after her. Twice, Eric had rescued her—even if the first time was indirectly. Dr. Warner was going to assume she wasn’t capable enough to stay out in the field. At this point Bryn didn’t believe the attacker would leave her alone if she dropped the case. Why did he want her off it? That was strange. Miss High and Mighty.

      Bryn was rattled. She had to keep a brave front, though. Already the men were going into protective mode, and while the woman in her warmed, the law enforcer had to stick to her guns to prove she was every bit as capable as they were. Her job was riding on this whether they realized it or not.

      “I don’t need you sleeping over, Holt.” She shot a heated glance at Eric. “What happened to ‘Bryn is a big girl’?”

      Eric wadded his napkin. “Bryn has been almost killed three times. Bryn needs backup.”

      Holt slid his hands through his midnight-black hair and frowned. “Eric and Bryn need to stop referring to Bryn in third person.”

      She went for the coffee canister by the pot, but it wasn’t there. Huh. She opened the pantry and dug around. What had she done with the coffee? Probably ought to settle for tea the way her nerves were frayed.

      Eric cleared the trash from the table. “I’d sleep better if someone was here. Inside.”

      She snorted. “Yeah, because this is about you and your solid eight hours of shut-eye.” Bryn rifled farther back in the pantry. Had she thrown away the canister? Too much crowding her mind. She slammed the cabinet and folded her arms over her chest.

      “What are you looking for?” Eric asked and stepped out of her way. She opened the cabinet by the fridge.

      “The coffee.”

      “Where do you keep it?”

      “By the coffeepot.” She hurried through several more cabinets, then opened the trash can. Maybe she had emptied and tossed it this morning.

      Eric covered her hand. The earnestness of his touch silenced her hunt and sent a flush into her cheeks.

      “Take a breath.” He placed his index finger on her temple, and a lazy grin slid across his face. “You’ve got too much rolling around in that head of yours.”

      She inhaled. Exhaled. “I thought I put it on the counter before feeding Newton.”

      “Where do you keep the dog food?”

      “In the laundry room.”

      Eric stalked from the kitchen into the laundry room near the back door. A minute later, he came out carrying the canister of coffee. “Now, let’s make sure you didn’t scoop the dog food from this canister and feed Newton coffee grounds, though I’d believe it. He runs on the hyper side.”