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)
He makes a soft, approving sound as he steps into my brightly lit haven. Paintings cover every surface—landscapes, abstract shapes, vibrant portraits. Sawyer stops to examine one canvas closely, head tilted curiously.
“Wow,” he whispers softly.
I approach, heart fluttering strangely at the vulnerability of sharing this space with him. “What do you think?”
He looks at me, admiration mingling with something deeper, more intense. “Beautiful. Complicated. Like their creator.”
My cheeks heat, but I hold his gaze. “Flattery won't earn you points.”
“Not flattery,” he says quietly. “Honesty.”
The air between us thickens once more, pulling me closer to him until I can almost feel the warmth of his body through the small space between us. Sawyer’s eyes drop to my lips, and my pulse thunders in response.
Just as I think he might actually lean in and kiss me, a sudden sharp sound shatters the moment—glass breaking, coming from somewhere outside.
Sawyer’s stance shifts instantly, his body shielding mine protectively. “Stay here.”
Heart pounding wildly, I watch him stride swiftly toward the sound, hand already at his side, ready. I’m left standing there, breathless, terrified, and undeniably exhilarated by the protective force that is Sawyer Maddox.
I already know he's trouble. The best kind.
3
Sawyer
The night air smells like jasmine and damp stone as I step onto the veranda, eyes sweeping left to right, corners first—hedge line, gate, dark windows. A stray bottle rolls along the flagstones, clinking once before settling against the step—teenagers’ litter kicked loose by the wind, nothing more. My pulse eases a notch. I pick it up, drop it in the bin, and stand a beat longer under the quiet, letting the house’s breathing sync with mine before I go back inside.
I head back inside to watch her paint. Her eyes clock mine as I step back inside the studio, and I nod, letting her know the threat is all clear.
She releases a breath, and returns to her canvas.
Camille paints like she breathes. Recklessly. Gloriously. And without apology. The afternoon light knifes through the clerestory windows of her studio, scattering rainbows across turpentine-speckled drop cloths and kissing the warm tan of her shoulders. She’s barefoot again, toes flexing against the splattered floorboards, hips swaying in a rhythm that has nothing to do with music and everything to do with instinct.
I station myself at the edge of the room, just close enough to intercept trouble, far enough to pretend I’m not cataloging every flex of her calf as she stretches for a stroke of cobalt. The SIG at my hip feels suddenly crude, a metal anachronism in a temple of color. Cam doesn’t acknowledge me at first. She’s lost to the canvas, wielding a three-inch brush like a saber, slashing oceans of indigo into existence.
“Background first,” she murmurs to herself. “Foundation before crescendo.”
The words aren’t meant for me, but they land anyway—an artist’s version of battlefield doctrine. Build the groundwork, then add the fireworks. I fold my arms, leaning against a beam, and let my pulse slow. There’s something almost obscene about the intimacy of watching someone create. It’s like spying on prayer.
Cam steps back, smudges a line with her thumb, leaves a streak of cerulean on her skin. Every few minutes she dips her brush into murky water, splatters droplets on her thigh, then attacks the canvas again. Flashes of sun ignite in her braid, and I catch myself wondering how that hair would feel wrapped around my fingers.
Focus, Maddox.
I do a slow visual sweep: three windows, all original brass latches—no forced entry marks. Door behind me, wide open; good sight lines. Overhead vent big enough for a raccoon, not a perp. No hidden drones, no fiber-optic camera lenses glinting in the rafters. Still, someone breached somewhere to plant that envelope. The question scribbles itself across my brain: How?
Cam finally notices me hovering. She dabs her brush in yellow, cocks her head. “You’re wound tighter than a drum. Does the color help or make it worse?”
“Depends,” I answer. “Do you have industrial-grade drop cloths for my anxiety?”
She laughs, the sound sliding under my ribs. “Come here.”
I straighten. “Excuse me?”
“Not to model. Relax.” She points at the unpainted corner of the mural. “Hold this palette while I finish the horizon line. Trust me, it’s easier than juggling it myself.”
Everything in the BRAVO handbook screams about maintaining a tactical bubble, but her eyes sparkle with challenge, and I can’t resist. I step forward, take the wooden palette—heavy, cool, alive with scent of oils. She brushes past me to reach her mark; the side of her breast grazes my forearm through the thin cotton of her tank. A hit of electricity detonates low in my gut.
Steady, soldier.
She paints, and I play human easel, watching veins of amber swirl into the indigo, watching her lips purse in concentration. At one point she lifts the palette with both hands to mix, and paint smears the back of my knuckles, a vivid poppy red. She catches the gesture, meets my eyes. Chemistry snaps taut between us like a tripwire.