The question makes me uncomfortable. How in the hell could he notice something like that? We only just walked in. “It’s not like that.” Inwardly, I admit to myself that I wish it were like that. Barely forty-eight hours with Izzy and she’s stirring things in my heart that I didn’t know existed. She brings out a fierceprotective side of me that no one has before, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying.
“If you say so.” Waylon’s expression suggests he’s not buying it for a second. “I tried to resist how I felt about Angelica, too. And now there isn’t a man alive happier to be married than I am.”
Before I can process what that might mean, Waylon stands as Izzy returns, sliding back into her seat with fluid grace. Waylon nods to her, then heads back to the bar.
“Tell me about Ghost Security,” Izzy says, her fingers tracing patterns on the condensation of her beer bottle. “How’d you end up working there?”
I take a pull of my beer and lean back in my chair. “It was just time. I was in the Rangers for ten years, but I saw teammates die or get badly injured, and I got spooked. It doesn’t help anyone if you’re running into a firefight and worried about what-ifs instead of the mission at hand. Then I took some shrapnel to my shoulder. Thought it was a good time to discharge, even if I didn’t want to, so I called it a day. Besides, Quincy, the guy who owns Ghost Security, offered me a job I couldn’t say no to. Good pay and fewer people pointing a gun at me and trying to kill me. It was a good deal.”
Izzy is hard to read as she watches me. I don’t usually give a fuck what someone thinks of me, but I find myself caring deeply about Izzy’s opinion.
“What about you?” I ask, deflecting the conversation to her.
For the first time, her face lights up with joy, and it’s dazzling. “I’ve always loved to sing. Hayden’s probably told you it drove him crazy when we were little, before I moved to Raytown with my mom. Most people didn’t think I’d amount to much with mysinging, aside from my high school choir teacher. Do you know the TV showThe Breakout?”
“Afraid I don’t. I don’t have much time to watch TV these days.” I haven’t made much time for anything other than work since I came back, and I don’t want to admit this to Izzy, but reality TV is a level of hell I never hope to visit.
“Well, long story short, it’s a singing competition. I didn’t win, but I still got a lot of attention and a record deal. That was nearly three years ago, and since then, I’ve been recording a lot, opening for bigger singers, and touring and playing in small clubs around the country. It’s exhausting, but it’s the best thing in the world.”
As Izzy continues talking, I catch something in her voice—a tension that suggests the best thing in the world comes with a price.
“But?” I prompt, sensing a lot more to the story.
“The pressure’s incredible,” she admits, her fingers tightening around her beer bottle. “Everyone wants a piece of you, wants to know everything about your life. Sometimes, I miss being nobody, you know? When I could go to the grocery store without wondering if someone’s watching me.”
The vulnerability in her voice triggers a deep protectiveness to surge in my chest. “Is that why you didn’t want security before this? Wanting to feel normal?”
“Partly. But also because...” She hesitates, then meets my eyes. “I worked so hard to get where I am. I didn’t want to admit that success could be dangerous. Thank you. For doing this, for taking care of everything. I know you’re a glorified babysitter right now.”
“Not at all. I’ve done protection detail before, but not for anyone I liked as much as you.”
The admission slips out before I can stop it, and I watch something shift in her expression.
Is it possible she could see me as more than her bodyguard?
CHAPTER 4
IZZY
Jake is going to be furious.
It’s Friday afternoon, andhe was insistent that I stay at Hayden’s house while he went to run an errand and check in at the office to see where the tech guy is with tracking my stalker.
But I was going stir crazy, so I called for a taxi and headed for my old high school.
Now, I’m walking through Raytown High. It’s late afternoon and all the kids are gone, but I know the teacher I’m looking for will undoubtedly still be here, probably working with a student.
The music department is tucked away in the arts wing, where the walls are still painted an unfortunate shade of beige. The same motivational posters hang crooked in their frames—”Music is the universal language” and “Follow your dreams.” The only difference now is that the edges are yellowed.
Mrs. Henderson’s classroom door stands open, and the familiar sound of someone practicing scales rings out clearly. My chest tightens with nostalgia. This was the first place anyone told me Ihad real talent, where Mrs. Henderson pushed me to reach notes I didn’t think I could hit and encouraged me to sing my own songs, when I’d been too shy to tell anyone—even my brother or my parents—that I was writing my own songs.
This room was where I learned music could be my ticket to a better life. When my parents were fighting constantly, when I felt invisible and then when Hayden was deployed in a faraway country, this was where I found solace and inspiration. Mrs. Henderson saw something in me when I couldn’t see it in myself, and that changed everything.
Life was so much simpler in high school, even if it didn’t seem simple then. The biggest worry was whether I’d embarrass myself during the spring concert, not whether some stranger was tracking my every movement.
“Isabelle Dawson.”
I turn to find Mrs. Henderson standing in the doorway, her silver hair pulled back in the same practical bun she wore when I was a student here. Her face breaks into a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes, and before I can respond, she’s pulling me into a hug that nearly makes me cry from how comforting it is.
