“Something like that. See you soon, sweetheart.”
The endearment glides over my skin like a caress as he ends the call.
I set my phone on the workbench and get to work. But my thoughts don’t stray too far from Beckett.
Because I can’t pretend anymore. Not about him.
Beckett has lost people. He carries the grief like shrapnel buried too deep to dig out. And he let me see some of those wounded pieces he keeps hidden. His confession about his past and his quiet, unwavering concern for me shifted something. Or maybe it started long before that. If I’m being honest, it might have begun the moment I first saw him at The Honey Pot—dark temptation wrapped in a Henley and hazel eyes that saw too much. He looked like trouble. The kind a girl with her guard up should avoid. And I tried. God, I tried.
But Beckett didn’t break through my walls; he waited them out. He showed up day after day like he wasn’t afraid of the mess beneath my surface. And now, I don’t just want him. I trust him. With my safety. With the truth.
With my heart?
The realization is staggering.
Am I brave enough to fully embrace him and all we could be? To choose whatIwant? To choose him?
I shake my head to clear my troubling thoughts and refocus on the vehicle in front of me. I’m halfway through rebuilding the transmission when the hair on the back of my neck stands up like it does before a storm breaks.
There's a stillness to the air that feels... unsettling.
The workshop appears empty. Nothing out of place. No one visible. Yet the sensation persists.
Years of being a cop's daughter have taught me to trust these instincts. Someone's watching.
My fingers find the heavy wrench without looking. Dad's first lesson: anything can be a weapon if you swing it hard enough.
I straighten slowly, my heart kicking against my ribs.
And then I hear the door close.
I spin around, the wrench raised instinctively.
“Easy, George.”
Deputy Marcus Wade stands just inside the shop, blocking the only exit.
He's smiling. But his eyes are wrong.
“Jesus, Marcus,” I snap, forcing calm into my voice. “You trying to get clocked with a wrench?”
He holds up his hands like I’m being silly. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Your dad said you were down here. Thought I’d swing by.”
Bullshit. Dad doesn’t even know I’m here. And that smile—it’s not friendly. It’s not polite. It’s… hungry.
I’m done with this man’s inability to take no for an answer. “Well, you swung. Now swing your ass back out. I’ve got work to do.”
He steps closer.
I back up.
“I just want to talk,” he says softly. “Things got tense with your dad at the fundraiser. I figured you could use a friend.”
“We’re not friends, Marcus. You work for my father, that’s it.”
Something sharp flashes in his eyes. “Right. You’ve got your big, broody bodyguard now. So, what? You let him between your legs, and now there’s no room for anyone else?”
What the…
