Chapter 9 Ryan #2
When I reach the feminine products section, I don’t hesitate. My sisters cured any awkwardness about this years ago. The list Celeste gave me included tampons, specifically heavy flow ones. A message meant to make me uncomfortable.
I grab the box, along with a selection of pads. If she’s trying to unbalance me with basic biology, she’s underestimated my upbringing. Three sisters and a nurse mother left no room for squeamishness.
I remember Melissa sending me to the store when we were teenagers, giving me absurdly specific instructions to see if I’d get flustered. I came back with exactly what she asked for, plus chocolate. The look of surprise on her face was worth every second of the cashier’s raised eyebrows.
The first aid supplies are next: antibiotic ointment, bandages, Ace bandages for her knee. I add a cold pack for her ribs and butterfly closures for the cut on her temple.
I mentally assess her injuries as I shop.
The ribs aren’t fully broken—her breathing is labored but not the shallow panting of a punctured lung.
Her knee is sprained, not torn—she can bear weight, albeit painfully.
The head wound is superficial, and there are no signs of concussion in her pupils or speech patterns.
She’s hurting but functional. Tough. You don’t get that kind of resilience from an easy life.
As I turn toward the checkout, I pass the hair care aisle and stop. Her appearance is distinctive. The men hunting her will have a description. Long, dark hair, approximately 5’7”, slim build.
I backtrack to the hair dye section. Changing her appearance isn’t just about disguise—it’s about survival. I scan the options, selecting a warm auburn shade that will alter her look without appearing unnatural against her skin tone.
I consider her complexion—olive with golden undertones. The auburn will complement that, bring out the flecks of gold I noticed in her brown eyes. It’s a practical consideration. Purely tactical.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I add a pair of shears to the basket. I’m no hairstylist, but I’ve cut my sisters’ hair in emergencies. I can manage a basic length reduction and some face-framing layers to change her silhouette.
Diane was always using me as practice for her cosmetology courses, teaching me the basics of cutting while complaining about my lack of artistic vision. “It’s geometry, Ryan. Angles and lines. You’re good at math—this should be easy for you.”
Turns out she was right. Hair cutting is just applied physics and geometry. I’m no virtuoso, but I can handle the fundamentals. Enough to change Celeste’s appearance without making her look like she lost a fight with a lawn mower.
On my way to the register, I pass the family planning section. I shouldn’t stop. There’s absolutely no tactical reason to.
I stop anyway.
The box of condoms feels like a presumption. Like arrogance. Like acknowledging something I have no business acknowledging in this situation.
I put them in the basket.
Just in case.
Not because I expect anything to happen.
Not because I want it to. But because preparation is ingrained in every fiber of my being, and the electric current that passed between us back in that hotel room wasn’t one-sided.
I felt her response. Saw the dilation of her pupils, the flush spreading across her cheeks, and the parting of her lips when I leaned in.
Three days minimum to Seattle with security protocols. That’s a lot of hours in close proximity. A lot of time spent in hotel rooms, in cars, in spaces where tension builds and releases one way or another.
Better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them. First rule of tactical planning.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I study the options. I select the ones that won’t aggravate her injuries. The ones designed for her comfort. Because yes, I’ve thought about it in enough detail to consider angles and positions that won’t strain broken ribs.
Christ, Ellis. Get it together.
Dangerous territory. Complications neither of us needs. Yet the condoms stay in the basket as I approach the checkout counter.
The cashier rings everything up without comment, though her eyebrows lift slightly at the combination of women’s clothing, hair dye, and condoms. I pay cash—no electronic trail—and head back into the night with four bulging plastic bags.
The rain has stopped completely now, leaving the streets glistening under streetlights. I maintain awareness as I walk, constantly scanning for threats or surveillance. Nothing triggers my instincts.
Still, I take a circuitous route back to the hotel, doubling back twice to ensure I’m not followed. Fourteen minutes have passed since I left Celeste alone. Within parameters, but barely.
My mind wanders to how I’ll handle her when I get back. She’ll be wary after that confrontation. Defensive. Pride wounded from being caught trying to leave. From being pinned against that wall.
From whatever passed between us in those charged moments before I whispered in her ear.
I’ll need to establish clear boundaries. Professional parameters. We have a long drive ahead, and complications will only endanger us both.
But there’s a part of me—a part I usually keep locked down tight during operations—that’s looking forward to her reaction when she sees what I’ve purchased. The lace. The hair dye. The condoms, if she happens to glimpse those.
Will she be offended? Amused? Intrigued?
The unpredictability is strangely appealing after years of working with people whose reactions I can calculate down to the syllable.
In the hotel lobby, I nod to the clerk and head straight for the elevator. My mind has already shifted to the next phase—getting Celeste cleaned up, addressing her injuries, and establishing a functional rapport that doesn’t involve pinning her to walls.
Though I can’t entirely regret that part.
The elevator doors close, leaving me alone with my reflection and the uncomfortable realization that Celeste Hart is more than a complication in my schedule. More than an unexpected responsibility. More than a stubborn, defiant journalist with a target on her back.
She’s a woman who makes me feel things I have no business feeling on a protection detail.
And that makes her dangerous in ways those professional killers could never be.
I arrive at our door and raise my fist to knock, then hesitate. What if she did manage to leave while I was gone? What if—
No. She’s in there. I’m sure of it.
Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks.
Our code. A small piece of structure in the chaos we’re navigating. A tiny fragment of the trust we’ll need to build if we’re going to survive what’s coming.
I wait, plastic bags rustling at my side, and I feel something I rarely experience before an operation: uncertainty. Not about our tactical situation or our next moves.
About her. About us. About whether I can maintain the professional distance this situation demands when everything about Celeste Hart makes me want to close that distance entirely.