The musty-sweet scent of the fresh hay blends with engine grease, creating an intimate bubble around us. Outside, voices drift in—people setting up for the fundraiser, oblivious to the rising temperature with each step I take closer to her.
My boots move silently on the worn wooden planks—years of combat training making stealth second nature. But right now, I want her to hear me coming. I want her to feel me getting closer with every step, just as I've felt her for the past two weeks.
I watch her work on engines, her capable hands making magic happen while I pretend not to stare. I know how she takes her coffee (black, two sugars), how she hums under her breath when concentrating, how her whole face lights up when she solves a particularly tricky problem.
She spins to face me, her back against the rough barn wall, fire and defiance pouring out of her as she grips the front of my shirt. The late afternoon sun catches in her hair, turning the loose strands to copper and gold. My fingers itch to run through those strands, to see if they're as soft as they were that night at The Honey Pot.
She shivers and glares at me like it’s my fault. “I don't do this. Especially not with men like you.”
“Men like me?” I ask carefully.
Her hands fist my shirt, not pulling me closer but not pushing me away, either. “I know what to look for, Beckett. The way you move. How you scan a room and track exits. You see everything.” Her voice lowers. “I grew up watching my dad do the same thing. He was military. I know what it looks like.”
I say nothing. Not yet.
“You’re a soldier.” It’s not a question.
I could lie. Deflect. But I won’t. Not to her. Not now.
“SEAL,” I correct after a beat. “Former.”
She exhales like I just proved her worst suspicion right. “I swore I’d never get involved with a military guy like my dad. Commanding. Controlled. Always putting the mission first.”
“I’m not your father.” I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “And you’re not a mission.”
She releases my shirt, gesturing between us. The fabric feels cold without her touch. “I don't do relationships or complications or?—”
“Or deputy-approved dating schedules with Deputy Wade?” I keep my voice low and controlled, even though every instinct screams to hunt him down.
“It's not like that.” Her voice wavers.
Anger rises in my gut at the memory of how he cornered her the other day, making her shoulders tense. I haven’t trusted Marcus Wade since the second he stepped too close to George with that politician’s grin and polished badge.
I reached out to Emmett Furbane after running into him at The Honey Pot. The man is a digital bloodhound and can find what official channels bury.
He hasn’t found anything concrete so far. But there are gaps. The kind of gaps that are intentional.
Wade’s hiding something. And I intend to find out what.
“Then what's it like?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle as anger churns inside me.
She tries to brush past me. I don’t move. Can’t move. Not when she’s this close, her scent—something sweet and intrinsically her—wrapping around me like a physical touch.
“From what I've seen, that guy is two steps away from becoming a problem.”
“He's already a problem.” The admission seems to surprise her. “Dad's been pushing us together. He says Marcus is stable. Safe.” She laughs, but there's no humor in it. “The perfect match for his daughter who needs settling down.”
Her chin lifts in that stubborn way that makes me want to kiss her senseless. She yanks her hair free from its elastic, raking her fingers through it like she's trying to comb out her frustration. “I've tried being nice. I’ve tried being direct. Marcus smiles like I'm cute, and Dad...” She twists her hair back up, her movements sharp and precise. “Dad means well. He worries. But I'm not marrying someone because they look good on paper and know how to shoot straight.”
Understanding clicks into place. “Is that why you were at The Honey Pot that night?”
She nods, looking away. “He wasn’t always like this,” she says quietly. “Not until after my mom died. I was twelve. It was a car accident, a hit-and-run in the rain. She was picking up a pie for my school fundraiser, of all things.”
I don’t say anything. I let her talk.
“After that, everything got tighter. Stricter. Like if he controlled enough things, nothing else bad could ever happen.” She swallows. “And I became something to protect. Not someone to raise.”
Her voice wavers. “He stopped seeing me as a daughter with wants and dreams and started seeing me as a responsibility.
