No fraternization.
Morality clause.
My attention went back to her. "I didn’t think we had a no-fraternization policy in the Wolves handbook."
"We don't," she answered dryly, "but this one does. I insist on it for anyone who’s assigned to something of this caliber and reports to me. I’ve seen people’s careers ruined for a lot less, which is why I take this so seriously." Beatrice held up a hand. "It's for your protection too, if you agree."
"Got it."
She searched my face. "Only say yes if you know, unequivocally, that you can do this job. I don’t believe in the three-strike rule, Molly. In life, we get one chance to impress people, and rarely do we get another."
An hour and a half later, I pulled into Logan and Paige's driveway, mind chugging like a freight train. It hadn't stopped since the moment I flipped over to the second page.
I was the first one to arrive for family dinner, which we gathered for every Tuesday night without fail. We held them on Tuesdays because during the season, it was my brother's day "off," if you could call it that. As the defensive coordinator for the Wolves, he still worked what seemed like a thousand hours a week during the season, but it was the one day a week he could get home before six thirty for all of us to eat together.
Before I walked into the house—the same one I lived in from the age of fourteen until I'd officially moved out after college—I took a second to calm my racing nerves.
My family would have varying reactions to this.
My sisters would think it was cool to differing degrees. The twins, Lia and Claire, would freak simply because it was Amazon. Isabel, my middle sister, would want to shadow me day and night because of her obsession with all things related to sports documentaries.
Paige would be excited for me, once she got over the need to punch my new boss in the throat.
And Logan? I groaned. My big brother would hate it. Unequivocally and irrationally. He'd all but command me to say no. Wait for another boss or another chance.
I blew out a harsh breath before I pushed the front door open.
Screams greeted me, as did the smell of garlic and herbs. The screams didn't faze me in the slightest, and the smell had me breathing deeply.
"I'm home," I called over the chaos. "Hide the carbs because I had a day."
Down the hallway in front of me, the one that led to the wide-open kitchen, dining, and living, came the intensified hollering.
"Molly! We're under attack, go! Go! Go!"
Flattening against the wall, I reached an arm out to snag the small body that hurtled past me across the wooden floor. "Slow your roll, soldier," I said into my nephew's hair as I gave him a quick kiss. "Who's attacking us?"
Emmett peered up at me, his blue eyes huge in his face and his cheeks flushed from running. "The zombies," he whispered dramatically. "They already got Dad. He's dead on the couch."
My heart squeezed at his serious delivery, the kind that only an eight-year-old boy could muster for an imaginary zombie attack. "Ahh, okay. Well, I put on my anti-zombie spray before I came in, so am I safe to proceed?"
His skinny arms squeezed me in a tight hug before he took off again. "Yup!" he called over his shoulder, then tore around the corner and out of sight.
My brother, Logan, popped up off the couch when I came into the family room, dropping a kiss on the top of my head, the same way I'd kissed his son, who was really more like my little brother than my nephew. "How'd it go? What's she like?"
I grimaced. "I need wine before this story."
"That good?"
"Just … unexpected."
He eyed me, more astute than I wanted him to be. But that wasn't a surprise. Logan had been my constant since day one. When I was born, Logan was nineteen years old. That was the kind of sibling age gap you had when our dad married a woman a couple of decades younger than him later in life.
Fast forward fourteen years—our dad had passed away from a heart attack, and my mom realized that being a young widow of four girls just wasn't the funnest life choice she could make. So she decided not to anymore. The Eat Pray Love option suited her better than parenthood, so Logan became our father figure in the legal sense even though he'd had that role for far longer.
"You'd tell me if I need to step in and talk to someone, right?"
I rolled my eyes, trying to hide the irritating flush of embarrassment. His comment was exactly why Beatrice was wary of me. "Yes, Coach."
He bumped shoulders with me as we walked into the kitchen.