Chapter Thirteen
Knox
Not wine. Whiskey.
I notice because I notice everything about her, and because during every meal we’ve shared, every bar, every late night at
the studio, I’ve never once seen Hailey order whiskey. Another crack in the story Hailey texted me an hour ago, another piece
of evidence I’m filing away without knowing what to do with it yet.
I take her coat, hang it by the door. “Wine?”
“God, yes.”
I pour while she drifts toward the kitchen, her eyes skating over the set table, the candles I lit and then felt stupid about,
the risotto I’ve reheated twice now. She’s performing casual, but I’ve spent months studying this woman. I know what relaxed
looks like on her, and this isn’t it.
“Something smells incredible.” She accepts the glass with fingers that aren’t quite steady. “What did you make?”
“Mushroom risotto. Roasted vegetables.”
“Knox Bishop, secret gourmet.” She manages a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Should I be worried?”
“The Marines taught me to make MREs tolerable. The risotto I learned from YouTube.”
She laughs, and some of the tension in my shoulders eases. This is familiar territory. This is us, trading quips and dancing around whatever’s really going on. I can work with this. I can give her space, let her settle, wait for the right moment.
We sit at the small table by the window. The city spreads out beyond the glass, all those Christmas lights blurring together
in the cold December air. For a few minutes we just eat. She makes appreciative sounds about the chanterelles. I refill her
wine. We talk about nothing—whether Cole actually reads the security briefs I send him or just signs off, the client who wanted
Sloane to design a collar for her Pomeranian, how long it would take me to tackle someone who broke into this apartment from
where I’m sitting.
But she’s not here. Not really.
I watch her push a Brussels sprout around her plate, watch the way her gaze keeps drifting toward the window like she’s expecting
to see someone looking back. Whatever happened tonight, wherever she actually was, it’s sitting on her chest like a weight
she can’t shift.
“Where were you tonight?”
The words come out rougher than I intend. Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth.
“I told you. Drinks with Chloe.”
“Hailey.”
She sets the fork down. Swallows hard.
“How did you know?”
“Called Sloane earlier. About something else.” I keep my voice level even though something hot is churning in my gut. “Chloe
was with her. You weren’t.”
I watch her cycle through options, watch the calculation behind her eyes. She’s good at this. Better than I gave her credit
for. That realization lands somewhere uncomfortable.
“Knox—”
“Who is he?”
Her head snaps up. The color drains from her face.
“The man who’s been watching your building.” I lean forward, unable to stop now that I’ve started. “I’ve seen him. More than once. Dark hair, tattoos on his neck. Knows how to disappear when someone gets too close.” I hold her gaze. “You went to meet him tonight. So I’ll ask again. Who is he?”
She could lie. I see her consider it, see the practiced way she weighs her options. I’ve seen that look before, but never
on anyone who wasn’t trained for it.
Then something changes. Surrender, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
“Someone I used to know. Someone who’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind I can’t explain.” Her eyes find mine, pleading. “Not yet.”
I search her face, cataloging every tell. The pulse jumping in her throat. The slight tremor at the corner of her mouth. Whatever
this is, it’s real, and it’s got her scared in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Are you in danger?”
She hesitates. That pause tells me more than words could.
“Maybe.”
Something cold settles in my chest. I’ve faced worse situations than whatever this is, at least in terms of direct threat.
But I’ve never cared about someone at risk the way I care about her. The stakes feel different when it’s personal.
“Then we handle it. Together.” I hold her gaze, making sure she understands I mean every word. “I don’t care what you’ve done.
I don’t care what he is to you. If someone’s threatening you, I will eliminate the threat.”
“Knox—”
“I mean it, Hailey.” I reach across the table and take her hand. Her fingers are ice cold. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” She bites her lip hard enough that I want to smooth the damage with my thumb. “I’ve done
things. Bad things. The kind that don’t just go away.”
“Everyone’s done things.”
“Not like this.”
“I was a Marine for eight years.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ve done things that still keep me awake. Things I can’t take back. Whatever your past is, it’s not going to scare me off.”
She stares at me like I’ve said something impossible. Like no one has ever offered her this before.
I stand and move around the table to her side. She tips her head back to look up at me, and I cup her face in my hands, feeling
the fine bones of her jaw beneath my palms.
“Let me help.”
For a moment I think she’s going to argue, going to insist on handling this alone. That’s who she is. Self-sufficient to a
fault.
Then she crumbles.
Not dramatically. She just leans forward until her forehead presses against my stomach, her shoulders shaking once, twice.
Her hands fist in my shirt like she’s anchoring herself against a current.
I thread my fingers through her hair and hold her, understanding for the first time how frightened she really is. This woman
who’s been performing calm all evening while her world comes apart at the seams.
I don’t know what her past looks like. I don’t know what kind of trouble she’s in or who the tattooed stranger is.
But I know I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt her.
“Stay tonight,” I say into her hair. “Please.”
She nods against my stomach without looking up.
We don’t finish dinner. I clear the plates while she curls on the couch, knees tucked up, wine glass cradled in her hands.
When I come back, she makes room for me, and I sink down beside her, pulling her against my side.
“I’m sorry I lied,” she says eventually, her voice muffled against my chest. “About Chloe.”
“I know.”
“I was going to tell you. I just didn’t know how.”
“You don’t have to explain everything tonight.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “When you’re ready.”
She tilts her face up, and I see gratitude there. Relief. Something warmer underneath.
“Knox.” Her hand flattens against my chest, right over my heart. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not pushing. For making me feel safe even when I’m not sure I deserve it.”
I kiss her instead of answering.
It starts soft. Gentle. Just reassurance. But she makes this sound in the back of her throat, something between a sigh and
a plea, and suddenly I’m pulling her into my lap, her thighs bracketing my hips.
Her fingers thread through my hair. My hands slide beneath her sweater, spreading across her shoulder blades. She arches into
my touch, rolls her hips in a way that makes me growl against her mouth.
“We should stop.” The words cost me. “You’re upset. This isn’t—”
“Don’t.” She kisses me harder, teeth catching my bottom lip. “Don’t tell me what I’m feeling.”
“Hailey.”
“I want this.” She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “I want you. Whatever happens tomorrow, I want tonight.”
I should argue. I should be responsible.
But she’s looking at me like I’m the only solid thing in her world, and I can’t deny her anything.
“Okay.” I cup the back of her neck. “But we’re not rushing this.”
She smiles for the first time since she walked through my door. A real smile. “Getting bossy already?”
“Getting protective.”
I carry her to the bedroom, her legs wrapped around my waist. Set her down on the edge of my bed and kneel in front of her,
working the hem of her sweater up while she watches me with dark eyes. When I pull it over her head, she’s wearing a simple
black bra underneath, nothing fancy, and my mouth goes dry anyway.
“Your turn,” she says, reaching for my shirt.
I let her undress me. Let her push the fabric up my chest and over my head, let her fingers trace the lines of ink across my pecs and down my ribs. She’s mapping me, I realize. Learning the terrain. Her touch is light but thorough, trailing over old scars and newer tattoos with equal curiosity.
“These are beautiful.” Her fingertip follows a line of script along my collarbone. “What do they mean?”
“Later.” I catch her hand, press a kiss to her palm. “Right now I just want to feel you.”
I unbutton her jeans slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to pull back, to tell me this is too fast. She lifts her
hips instead, helping me slide the denim down her legs. Black cotton underneath, matching the bra. Simple and devastating.
She reaches for my belt, and I let her unbuckle it, let her work my jeans open with fingers that tremble just slightly. When
she pushes them down my hips, I’m already hard, straining against my boxer briefs in a way I can’t hide. Her gaze drops, and
I watch her throat move as she swallows.
“Knox.”
“We’re not rushing,” I remind her. Remind myself. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
“I know.” She looks up at me, and every wall she keeps up is just—gone. Unshielded in a way I haven’t seen before. “I just
want to be close to you. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “That’s okay.”
I ease her back onto the mattress and stretch out beside her, one hand sliding up her rib cage while I kiss her slow and deep.
She presses against me, her leg hooking over my hip, and the friction makes us both groan into each other’s mouths.
We stay like that for a long time. Kissing until my lips feel bruised, until I know the taste of her better than my own name.
My hands roam her body, mapping the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the soft skin of her inner thighs.
Every time I brush too close to where she’s hot and aching, she shivers against me, and I pull back before I lose my resolve.