Chapter 2

Hal's POV

"So, she's really your sister?" The question came from directly beside me for what must have been the millionth time since arriving at the party. Every time I stepped away from Steph for the barest moment, one of the guys was there to ask about her. I've had the same conversation dozens of times.

Them: Is that your girlfriend?

Me: No. My sister.

Them: Sister? You two look nothing alike.

Me: Step-sister

Them: Ahh, that makes sense. You ever tap that?

Me: She's my sister!

Them: [chuckle] Yeah, but not by blood. You've never even thought about it?

Me: No! She's my–

Them: Sister, got it. So, is she single?

Me: [vague statements about Steph having a date]

Them: But she's here with you. Must not be serious about her if he can't even spend New Year's with her. Do you mind if I ask her out?

None of them stuck around long enough to reply, which is probably a good thing because I don't know what I would have said. It's not like I'm Steph's keeper. I have no say in who she dates and who can ask her out. Probably, they threw it out there as a courtesy to me to let me know they planned on it so it wouldn't be weird later if I found out they'd been on a date with her. To my knowledge, though, no one had been so bold as to actually ask her out, but if they had, she'd turned them down.

"My step-sister, yeah," I confirmed wearily, accepting my drinks from the guy behind the makeshift bar and turning to find out who was asking now. Eric Ramsey, or Ram for short. He was one of the higher-ranking guys because he'd been on the team almost since day one. He was a nice enough guy, but from what I'd heard of his conversations in the break room, he was one of the company's biggest players. No way did I want him anywhere near Steph with that reputation.

"She seems to be getting along with everyone really well for an outsider," Ram said, deviating from the script. A tiny bit of tension eased from my shoulders, but I didn't think it was enough to head off the migraine I could feel building in my skull.

I'd invited Steph because she was at a loose end for New Years and I wanted her to have a good time instead of sitting at home alone with her hamster, or worse, sitting in Mom and Dad's living room watching the celebrations on TV. Despite her sisterly jabs, she was a really nice person at heart. Bright, enthusiastic, exuberant. She had a knack for getting people on her side almost instantly. Her ease in social situations was something that constantly awed me.

And that was the other reason I'd brought her here tonight: to act as the conduit for conversation. As much as this new job was a thousand times better than my last one–the pay was above award, the people were great and genuinely seemed to care about each other–I'd only been working at Rangeman Security for a few weeks, and hadn't really figured out how to talk to most of the guys yet. Sure, we had a lot in common, since more than ninety percent of the employees were ex-military like me, but I just wasn't good at talking.

Hell, up until tonight when we arrived at the party and people started greeting me, I hadn't even figured out how to tell them that I preferred to be called Hal rather than my given name of Harold. Steph had fixed that immediately.

Cal had been the first to notice us, calling my name enthusiastically when we paused just inside the door, and while he was crossing the distance to us, Steph's head snapped to the side, spearing me with that laser point gaze she had. "Harold?" she questioned. I winced. "He knows you prefer 'Hal', right?"

"It's fine," I mumbled. "I–"

"Hal!" she said exasperatedly. "You're allowed to tell people what you want to be called! There was probably even a spot in one of the forms you filled out for HR to put your preferred name."

I shook my head, not to deny her words, but to try to get her to stop before she went into full-on big sister mode. "It's fine," I repeated lamely as Cal closed in.

"Tell him," she insisted, and when I tried to protest again, she stepped closer, whispering so no one would hear her threat. "Tell him or I'll start telling everyone at this party that you prefer to go by Cuddlebug."

My jaw dropped to the toe of my shoe as shock left me momentarily speechless. "You wouldn't!" I pleaded, but I could see the gleam in her eye. It didn't matter if she would or wouldn't follow through, the mere thought that it was a possibility was enough to spur me into action, and she knew it. We stared at each other for another second, I gulped down the nervous lump in my throat and just as Cal arrived in front of us, I plucked up enough courage from my back pocket to follow through.

"Hey, Cal," I greeted, subtly wiping my moist palms on my thighs. "I, uh, actually prefer to go by Hal, if you don't mind, not Harold."

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Hal?"

I nodded.

"Shit, man, yeah. Of course. I didn't realise. Why didn't you say something sooner? We can call you Hal, no worries." He shot me a reassuring smile and clapped me on the upper arm before his eyes slid to the side where Steph stood a self-satisfied grin. "So, Hal, who's your date this evening?"

I nodded to Ram, watching Steph converse with a group of mixed Rangeman employees and their significant others. "Dad's military too, and was still active when she was a kid, so I guess she understands some of the trials that come with that in home life." That and she's the most endearing person I'd ever met. Even when she was territorial over her Dad when he and Mom first started dating, she couldn't bring herself to be actually mean to me or Mom. Standoffish, sure. Suspicious, absolutely. But mean? I didn't think Steph had a mean bone in her body.

"That makes sense," Ram agreed. "You both having a good time tonight?"

I found it hard to believe that Ram, who liked to recount his tales of conquest from the weekend over coffee every Monday, wasn't going to follow the example of every other single guy here and ask if she was available, but at the same time, it was such a relief that I almost wanted to thank him. "Yeah," I confirmed instead. "It's been good."

Ram nodded and accepted his own drink from the self-appointed bartender, lifting it to his lips and taking a short sip. "It's about to get better," he said. "It's about ten minutes to midnight, so anyone who wants to is gonna start heading up to the roof for the fireworks."

I thanked him for the heads up and returned to the group, handing Steph her rum and coke while I took a sip of my just-coke. "Everyone's gonna start heading up to the roof," I said when she sent me a smile of thanks. "Almost time for the fireworks, and then I think we should go, I'm getting a migraine."

We followed the crowds out of the conference room to the hall, most of the guys heading toward the stairwell while a selection of men and women waited for the elevator. I sent Steph a questioning look, knowing her complete aversion to stairs and wasn't surprised when she tilted her head toward the elevator. The trip became a replica of a sardine can as people kept insisting we could fit more people into the tiny box. "The limit hasn't been met either in people or in weight," someone in the back pointed out. "Squish in." They waved at the plaque on the wall that claimed the elevator could apparently hold twenty-one people. So far, we had twelve people and I thought we'd run out of room, but somehow we managed to fit another three before we let the doors close. Hank lifted his phone to take a selfie of us all crammed in the space on the way up.

We spilled out on the roof, laughing and tripping over one another, (probably looking like well-dressed clowns tumbling out of a car to the guys already milling around the roof), and I trailed after Steph and one of the other women as they made their way over to the edge to secure a decent spot to view the fireworks. The same music from downstairs was being pumped through speakers that had been set up around the area, and people were laughing and dancing right up until someone called out the beginning of the countdown.

Steph yelled out the numbers along with everyone else, but my headache was worsening. It was all I could do not to wince every time. And don't even get me started on the fireworks. All I can say is, thank god they were far enough away that the noise wasn't deafening, but the lights did something terrible to my vision for a full minute after they stopped.

"Steph," I said, laying a hand on her arm to steal her attention away from where she was talking to my boss, Lester Santos, the guy who'd put on the party. It sounded like she was apologising, but Lester just returned a flirtatious comment about hitting things other than his nose.

She blew him off quickly, the same way she'd cast aside a million other advances tonight and turned a concerned eye my way. "What's wrong?" she asked, setting her empty glass on the guard rail and turning to face me fully.

"Migraine," I said. "If we don't leave now, I don't think I'm gonna be able to drive."

But her attention wasn't on me. It had drifted past my shoulder, and her expression was changing. "Yeah, um…" she murmured, clearly distracted, and I would have turned to see what had caught her attention if I had any faith in it not making the pain in my head worse. "Hey, you go ahead. I think I'm gonna hang here a while longer. I'll call an Uber later."

I shook my head, already forgetting the conclusions I'd just made, and had to slam my hand down on the guardrail to prevent myself from swaying as a wave of nausea washed over me. "I promised Dad I'd keep you safe, Steph," I pointed out, squinching my eyes shut.

She was nodding when I opened them, her eyes still tracking whatever it was on the other side of the roof that had caught her attention. "I know, Hal. And you have. This is the most secure party I've ever attended. I'll be fine. And if something does happen to me, I'm surrounded by a bunch of ex-mil security experts. You go home before you get sick."

Her point was valid, but it still didn't sit quite right with me. If I'd been in less of a state, I might have argued further and tried to convince her to come home now, but I was fading fast. "Okay, but we're supposed to text when we get home safe. And I'm supposed to be dropping you off. I can't text before you; they'll be suspicious."

A mild frustration snapped her demeanour for a moment and got her to look at me for a full minute. I could see the cogs turning as she solved the problem. "So you message me when you get home, and I'll message Dad and Beth then. Then you can message them fifteen minutes later," she suggested.

"But how will we know you're safe?" I pressed, resigned, but needing to make sure all our bases were covered. "You're sending a false text to Mom and Dad, how will we know you got home?"

Cupping my face in both hands, she kept steady, insistent eye contact as she promised, "I'll text you when I get home safe. Okay? Now go home, Hal, before you keel over. I'm a big girl, I can handle myself at a secured party." I nodded, thanked her, and gave her a hug before heading back down in the lift to the parking garage where I sat in the quiet car for a minute to make sure I was still right to drive before heading home, all the while hoping against hope that I hadn't just made the biggest mistake of my life. I trusted these men with my life, but the fact was, I'd only been working with them for a few weeks. I didn't actually know any of them.