Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“Something smells incredible.” She accepts the glass with fingers that aren’t quite steady. “What did you make?”
“Mushroom risotto. Roasted vegetables.”
“Knox Bishop, secret gourmet.” She manages a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Should I be worried?”
“The Marines taught me to make MREs tolerable. The risotto I learned from YouTube.”
She laughs, and some of the tension in my shoulders eases. This is familiar territory. This is us, trading quips and dancing around whatever’s really going on. I can work with this. I can give her space, let her settle, wait for the right moment.
We sit at the small table by the window. The city spreads out beyond the glass, all those Christmas lights blurring together in the cold December air. For a few minutes we just eat. She makes appreciative sounds about the chanterelles. I refill her wine. We talk about nothing—whether Cole actually reads the security briefs I send him or just signs off, the client who wanted Sloane to design a collar for her Pomeranian, how long it would take me to tackle someone who broke into this apartment from where I’m sitting.
But she’s not here. Not really.
I watch her push a Brussels sprout around her plate, watch the way her gaze keeps drifting toward the window like she’s expecting to see someone looking back. Whatever happened tonight, wherever she actually was, it’s sitting on her chest like a weight she can’t shift.
“Where were you tonight?”
The words come out rougher than I intend. Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth.
“I told you. Drinks with Chloe.”
“Hailey.”
She sets the fork down. Swallows hard.
“How did you know?”
“Called Sloane earlier. About something else.” I keep my voice level even though something hot is churning in my gut. “Chloe was with her. You weren’t.”
I watch her cycle through options, watch the calculation behind her eyes. She’s good at this. Better than I gave her credit for. That realization lands somewhere uncomfortable.
“Knox—”
“Who is he?”
Her head snaps up. The color drains from her face.
“The man who’s been watching your building.” I lean forward, unable to stop now that I’ve started. “I’ve seen him. More than once. Dark hair, tattoos on his neck. Knows how to disappear when someone gets too close.” I hold her gaze. “You went to meet him tonight. So I’ll ask again. Who is he?”
She could lie. I see her consider it, see the practiced way she weighs her options. I’ve seen that look before, but never on anyone who wasn’t trained for it.
Then something changes. Surrender, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
“Someone I used to know. Someone who’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind I can’t explain.” Her eyes find mine, pleading. “Not yet.”
I search her face, cataloging every tell. The pulse jumping in her throat. The slight tremor at the corner of her mouth. Whatever this is, it’s real, and it’s got her scared in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Are you in danger?”
She hesitates. That pause tells me more than words could.
“Maybe.”
Something cold settles in my chest. I’ve faced worse situations than whatever this is, at least in terms of direct threat. But I’ve never cared about someone at risk the way I care about her. The stakes feel different when it’s personal.
“Then we handle it. Together.” I hold her gaze, making sure she understands I mean every word. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care what he is to you. If someone’s threatening you, I will eliminate the threat.”
“Knox—”
“I mean it, Hailey.” I reach across the table and take her hand. Her fingers are ice cold. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” She bites her lip hard enough that I want to smooth the damage with my thumb. “I’ve done things. Bad things. The kind that don’t just go away.”
“Everyone’s done things.”
“Not like this.”
“I was a Marine for eight years.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ve done things that still keep me awake. Things I can’t take back. Whatever your past is, it’s not going to scare me off.”
She stares at me like I’ve said something impossible. Like no one has ever offered her this before.
I stand and move around the table to her side. She tips her head back to look up at me, and I cup her face in my hands, feeling the fine bones of her jaw beneath my palms.
“Let me help.”
For a moment I think she’s going to argue, going to insist on handling this alone. That’s who she is. Self-sufficient to a fault.
Then she crumbles.
Not dramatically. She just leans forward until her forehead presses against my stomach, her shoulders shaking once, twice. Her hands fist in my shirt like she’s anchoring herself against a current.
I thread my fingers through her hair and hold her, understanding for the first time how frightened she really is. This woman who’s been performing calm all evening while her world comes apart at the seams.