Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Heat creeps up my neck. “He’s… professional.”
“Oh, honey, that man’s jawline is a war crime. And you keep licking your lips every time he bends to adjust a cable.”
“I do not!” The koi startle at my squeak.
Before Vanessa can roast me further, Riggs ambles over, beard bristling with zip-tie ends. “Ladies. Cabling’s done. Perimeter’s now a paparazzi-proof laser grid.”
Vanessa spins, zeroes in. “And who’s this? Lumberjack chic. I like.”
“Andrew Riggs, but everyone calls me Riggs,” he says, offering a calloused paw. “I operate power tools and occasionally diplomacy.”
“Vanessa Mercado. I operate social media and occasionally hearts.” She gives him a once-over so blatant I expect sparks. “Need a drink? Cam said I could raid the wine.”
“Wine’s above my pay grade on duty,” Riggs replies, but his grin says ask me again when the cameras stop rolling.
I groan. “Can we at least finish fortifying the fortress before you start speed-dating the security team?”
“Nobody said I can’t multitask.” Vanessa blows me a kiss and glides inside, Riggs in tow, launching into a tale about how she once turned a charity auction into a conga line. The man chuckles—deep and genuine. Traitor.
I turn, and collide with Sawyer’s chest. Somehow he’s materialized behind me without a sound. Almost ghostlike. His gaze tracks Vanessa and Riggs disappearing into the house. “Your friend is… energetic.”
“She collects phone numbers like charity tax receipts,” I mutter. “Sorry.”
“No apology needed.” But something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something tighter. He angles his body closer, subvocalizes into his mic: “Riggs, status?”
Riggs: “Client’s friend insists the wine cellar is haunted. We’re investigating.”
Sawyer’s mouth twitches. “Copy. Avoid spirits other than ghosts.”
“Funny guy,” I say. “Didn’t peg you for one.”
“Few do.” He steps back, and seems to remember himself. Professional. Always. But his gaze lingers a beat too long on my mouth, and the hummingbird under my ribs resumes kamikaze missions.
“Oh, Cam—one sec.” Vanessa bursts out of the French doors again, a bottle of rosé in each hand. “Do you have a corkscrew in the studio? The fancy one shaped like a man flexing?”
“I’ll grab it,” I sigh. Anything to remove myself before my face combusts. “Be right back.”
Sawyer: “I’ll escort.”
“I’m going thirty feet.”
“Thirty feet too many.” His tone leaves no room for an argument. I roll my eyes but head to the studio, him shadowing like a silent thundercloud.
Inside, I rummage through drawers, and finally find the novelty opener. When I turn, Sawyer stands by the unfinished painting from last night, studying the new strokes I added after his line—turquoise streaming from the arc like neon smoke.
“You expanded it.”
“Felt right.” I set the corkscrew down, and cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t mind?”
He inches closer to the canvas, fingertip hovering near a section where I blended cobalt into crimson. “Looks like movement through danger. Very controlled.”
“I was thinking of river water carving rock. Same path, a new depth,” I say, surprised by how much I want him to understand.
“I get that.” His voice is low, almost reverent. “Erosion and endurance.”
We’re standing too close. I can smell cedar and a hint of gun oil. I see the faint shadow of his stubble that’s darker than yesterday. Awareness buzzes between us like a live beast unable to be tamed.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For caring whether I wake up tomorrow.”
He exhales as if punched. “That’s the job.”
“No.” I tap the arc he drew, white and clean. “This isn’t the job. This is you.”
He looks at me then—truly looks—and the room narrows to the space between our knees. His hand lifts, hesitates, then cups my elbow where the bruise blooms. His thumb passes over the healing skin so gently my breath stutters.
“I hate that he touched you,” he says.
“Me too.” I swallow. My pulse is a canon. “But you’re here now.”
“Always.” The single word thrums with a reverent vow.
A crash reverberates from the house—a bottle hitting tile, maybe, followed by Vanessa’s shriek of laughter and Riggs’ baritone: “I told you the cork was possessed!”
The spell cracks, and we step apart. Sawyer jerks his chin toward the noise. “You safe here for five?”
“I’ll live.”
He jogs off to ensure my wine cellar is still standing. I drag a shaky breath, fan my face, then follow with more decorum than my legs feel.
By the time I reach the massive open-plan kitchen, Vanessa is sitting on the quartz island, dangling her legs while Riggs mops up a puddle of rosé. “I swear it popped itself,” she declares, cheeks flushed with color.
Sawyer stands at the doorway, arms folded, assessing. Seeing me, he relaxes half a notch. “Faulty bottle,” he explains.
“More like an overzealous corkscrew,” Riggs drawls, nudging Vanessa’s thigh with his elbow. “Told her to let me handle it.”
Vanessa pats his bicep. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Jealousy nips my ribs. It’s irrational—Sawyer’s not flirting—but Vanessa’s earlier laser focus makes me irrationally territorial. Before I can scold myself, headlights bloom across the drive, cutting through the front windows in a sweep. Too quick for Edgar’s usual florist delivery, too slow for a visitor.