Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“You have a weakness for battered books and blank pages,” I tease, fingering a turquoise necklace.
“Tools of the trade,” he replies, nodding at the journal. “Plans, maps, contingency notes.”
“Poems,” I counter, handing him a pen from a crystal cup. “Maybe something about sunsets and cavalry charges.”
He almost smiles. “More like exit routes and radio frequencies, but I’ll consider it.”
I choose the necklace and a silk scarf for Melanie; Asher buys the journal despite token resistance. When we step back onto the street, canvas bags swinging between us, we wander to another little shop.
I try on a pair of comically oversized sunglasses shaped like flamingos. Asher snorts. “If you wear those to the resort, Nancy Sinclair’s head will explode.”
“Tempting,” I say, striking a pose. His gaze lingers a second too long, and heat prickles across my cheeks. Flamingo glasses go back on the rack in self-defense.
By mid-afternoon our bags hold scented candles, the vintage leather-bound journal for Asher, our books, Melanie’s gift, and a tiny succulent I’ve christened Spike. We exit the last store, still laughing about the elderly shop owner who tried to sell Asher a “real cowboy hat, guaranteed to make your woman swoon.”
We’re halfway across the parking lot when the laughter drains from my chest. A prickling awareness crawls up my spine. There’s the undeniable sense of being watched. I slow, eyes darting across the sun-baked windshields and reflective shop windows. There’s a mother wrangling toddlers, a teenager scrolling her phone, two retirees debating license-plate tags—normal, harmless…yet the feeling clings.
Asher notices. “What’s wrong?”
“Just… a vibe.” My voice sounds thin, silly even, but he doesn’t dismiss it. He scans the lot, jaw set.
We reach the truck. Asher unlocks the passenger door, but I freeze. A folded piece of paper is tucked beneath the windshield wiper. Plain white, no logo, just there.
Asher sees it too. “Stay back.” He plucks the note, eyes narrowed, then unfolds it with deliberate care. His shoulders tense.
“What does it say?” I whisper, hugging the shopping bags like a shield.
He hesitates, then hands it to me. The paper is cheap, the message typed, impersonal… except for the threat oozing between the words:
“FAIRYTALES DON’T END WELL FOR LIARS.
HE CAN’T PROTECT YOU FOREVER.”
There’s no signature. No hint of who he is. But I know. My stomach knots itself into origami.
I look up, and Asher’s expression is granite-hard, eyes scanning the perimeter. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“But—”
“Charlotte.” His voice brooks no argument. He ushers me into the cab, bags and all, then does a quick sweep of the truck bed before climbing in. As he starts the engine, my hands shake so badly the note rattles on my lap.
“Do you think it’s from Wade?” My words tumble out in a rush. “Or someone he’s working with? Melanie said he’s involved with shady—”
“Breathe,” Asher says, keeping his tone calm while his eyes flick from mirror to road. “We don’t know yet. But I’ll find out.”
The truck rolls onto the highway back to the resort. Anxiety buzzes under my skin, louder than the tires on the asphalt. Asher’s left hand tightens on the wheel; his right rests over the console, palm up, offering. I slide my fingers into his. He squeezes once and the buzzing quiets a notch.
“I had fun today,” I say softly, needing something normal to cling to.
A small smile flickers across his lips. “Me too. We’ll do it again, of course, without the welcome note.”
Does he really mean that?
I try to match his smile, but the paper still trembles in my free hand, and my heart pounds a fearful rhythm: He can’t protect you forever.
Maybe not forever, I think, glancing at Asher’s stoic profile. But right now, in this moment, he’s doing a damn good job. And I’m holding on for dear life.
17
Asher
The second Charlotte steps out of the truck she’s clutching that ominous sheet of paper like a talisman that might either protect her or burst into flame. She’s silent during the elevator ride—too silent for a woman who normally fills awkward spaces with quick wit—and I use the time to catalog every new security gap in my head: where I parked (exposed), how long we lingered in town (too long), and how many resort staff members might have eyes on us now. The elevator lights flicker over her face as we ascend, and I note the tell-tale signs of adrenaline crash: tremor in her hands, shallow breaths, pupils still blown wide.
Fourth floor, east wing—our suite. Inside, I lock the deadbolt, chain, and hotel‐issue latch, then do my standard sweep even though housekeeping just serviced the room an hour ago. Bed skirt lifted (no one underneath), closets cleared, balcony doors tested and locked. I dim every light except the floor lamp by the sofa, creating an even wash that leaves no deep shadows for a threat to hide in. Charlotte hovers by the coffee station, arms wrapped tight around herself, hugging the note like it’s made of glass.