Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Black sweatpants. Dark hoodie pulled low. Hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world. His mouth curled into a slow, satisfied smile as we passed.
Sebastian.
My hands tightened on the wheel, my knuckles turning white.
Every interaction with that prick replayed in my mind. Him showing up unannounced. The very public lunch at the café before coming to the farm, making sure he was seen, knowing that shit would be shared. And now this—hovering in the shadows of a street he had no business being on, smiling like a man who had gotten exactly what he came for.
I said nothing.
Lofton was already fragile, and I had nothing concrete. Though a decade of gut instincts had never failed me.
Keeping my voice barely above a breath. I activated my earpiece. “Chris.”
“Go ahead.”
“Alley. East side of the street. Dark hoodie. You see him?”
A beat of silence. “Negative.” Another pause. “You see another camera?”
“Not quite.”
My eyes cut to the rearview mirror. Lofton was staring out the window, knee bouncing a mile a minute, still scared, but thankfully oblivious.
I kept my jaw loose, every muscle in my face working overtime not to betray me. “Just make sure the ladies get out of there before you let up on the photographer.”
“Copy that.” Chris paused one more time before adding, “Devon. I had eyes on that alley. I didn’t see anybody.”
I said nothing.
Just stared at the road ahead.
Oh, he’d been there.
Watching. Lurking. Just far enough out of scope to maintain deniability.
The police had cleared Sebastian as a suspect in the break-in that had cost Marty and Derrick their lives. Airtight alibi. Different continent. Thirty days of production receipts and witness accounts that put him nowhere near California.
But the most dangerous men in any room were rarely the ones pulling the trigger.
Just because Sebastian hadn’t been there didn’t mean it couldn’t have been his hand stirring the pot. Powerful men with enough money and enough motive rarely had to do their own dirty work. They just had to make a phone call, point someone in the right direction, and then lie low while someone else set the house on fire.
15
LOFTON
The house was quiet when we got back.
Daddy’s light was off, which meant Apollo’s check-in had been accurate and he’d been asleep the whole time I was gone. Out of habit, I checked his door, pressing my ear to the wood just long enough to hear the steady rhythm of his snoring, and then allowed myself to breathe.
Devon was already on his phone before we’d even made it inside.
I’d caught bits and pieces. Something about footage. An alley. And a bunch of security mumbo jumbo I didn’t understand. Which, after the night we’d had, I was grateful not to.
Each time his eyes found me, he’d grin, tight but reassuring, and then go right back to business, clipping sentences as if he’d never heard of a pronoun.
I filled a glass of water and leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment. Which, at this point, was practically a hobby.
Devon Grant was beyond gorgeous. Tall, dark, and absurdly sexy.
Great. Fine. Noted. Moving on.
Except I hadn’t moved on. Not even a little. Because somewhere between the burned bagels and our mornings in the barn, Devon Grant had gone from the man I couldn’t read to the story I couldn’t put down.
Devon wasn’t like the men I’d met in LA. He wasn’t flashy, all swagger and noise, demanding to be noticed. He was a man who went to great lengths to keep his true self hidden. You wouldn’t find him in his words. He was too careful with those. Deliberate, as if he had a finite number to give. The real Devon lived in the unguarded moments when his instinct to act got ahead of his need to hide.
I still couldn’t piece together why he was hiding in the first place, but make no mistake, I saw Devon Grant.
I’d seen him when he’d taken me to the funeral home in the middle of the night, pausing to say a goodbye of his own.
And the night he’d curled his hand around the back of my neck in my childhood bedroom, telling me I’d done the right thing by hiding in the bathroom, like he simply couldn’t stomach the idea of me blaming myself.
I saw him again when he’d stepped between me and Sebastian at the gate, the filthy pieces of my past fueling him into action rather than driving him away.
As if he’d heard my thoughts, his gaze flicked my way, phone still held to his ear.
I set the glass in the sink and whispered, “I’m gonna head up to bed.”
He nodded. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I whispered, reaching out to give his arm a squeeze.
He stared at me for a beat, but before he could work his voodoo and plunder my emotional grid, I padded toward the stairs. I couldn’t be sure, but I swear I heard his chuckle when the first step groaned beneath me.