Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
EAMON
I woke to sunlight streaming through the cabin’s small window and the most perfect weight against my chest that I’d ever felt in my long, long life.
Charles was still asleep, curled against my side with one arm flung across my ribs and his face pressed into the hollow of my shoulder.
His hair was sticking up at impossible angles, and there was a small wet spot on my chest where he’d drooled slightly in sleep.
He looked younger like this, peaceful and unguarded, without the careful smile he wore for the world or the worry lines that had appeared since Carlo entered our lives.
Our lives. Christ on a bicycle, when had I started thinking of it that way?
For a few precious minutes, I let myself pretend this was real. That I was simply a man waking up next to someone I cared about, in a bed we shared because we wanted to be together, not because of some elaborate protection scheme. That Charles knew exactly who I was and chose to be here anyway.
The fantasy was so seductive that I almost convinced myself it could be true.
Charles stirred against my chest, making a soft sound that went straight to parts of me that had no business responding this early in the morning. His fingers flexed against my ribs, and I felt him take a deeper breath as he began to surface from sleep.
“Morning,” he mumbled against my shoulder, his voice rough and warm.
“Morning, love.” The endearment slipped out before I could stop it, but Charles smiled and nuzzled closer.
“What time is it?”
I craned my neck to see the old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. “Just past eight.”
“Mmm. Haven’t slept this well in days.” He tilted his head up to look at me, and the soft contentment in his brown eyes made my chest tight. “Thank you for staying and for not making it weird.”
I wanted to tell him it was the least weird thing that had ever happened to me, that waking up with him felt more natural than breathing. Instead, I brushed a wayward lock of hair off his forehead and tried to ignore the way he leaned into the touch.
“Any time,” I said, and meant it more than he could possibly know.
We lay there for a while longer, trading lazy touches and quiet conversation. Charles told me about a dream he’d had involving a wedding cake made entirely of ice cream that kept melting before he could finish decorating it. It sounded frustrating.
Eventually, the need for coffee lured us out of bed and into the day.
Charles fed Wolfgang first, then started on our breakfast. Watching Charles move around the small kitchen, humming softly as he scrambled eggs and toasted bread on the ancient gas stove, something settled into place in my chest that I didn’t have a name for.
He’d pulled on a worn sweater, and every time he reached for something in the upper cabinets, it rode up to reveal a tantalizing strip of skin at his lower back.
This was what domestic bliss looked like. Not grand gestures or passionate declarations, but quiet mornings and shared coffee and someone humming while they cooked for you because they wanted to take care of you. This was what my parents had shared, what their love had looked like.
I wanted it with a desperation that scared me.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Charles said, setting a plate in front of me.
I looked down at perfectly scrambled eggs, golden toast, and fresh fruit arranged with the same care he brought to his professional work. Even with limited supplies and a temperamental stove, he’d created something beautiful.
“Just thinking how lucky I am,” I said, which was true enough.
Charles’s smile could have powered the entire grid. “Flatterer.”
We ate breakfast while planning our day—maybe a hike to the lake Charles had spotted on our drive yesterday, definitely some time spent reading by the fire. Normal couple things that we both pretended were normal for us too.
When we started cleaning up, Charles asked, “What’s the biggest case you’ve worked on?”
I blinked because for a second, I thought he meant as an angel. But no, of course not. He was talking about me being a detective.
Fuck. I should’ve prepared for this question, should’ve created a backstory for my persona like Gabriel always told us to do. Instead, I scrambled for an answer that wouldn’t sound completely manufactured. “Erm, a serial killer who had killed five women.”
A serial killer? Where the flying fuck had that come from? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’d watched too many true-crime documentaries.
Charles halted for a moment, meeting my eyes with a puzzled frown. “I thought you were in organized crime.”
Jesus Christ and all the saints, why did Charles have to have the best memory on the planet…unlike me? “I worked in homicide for a short while. Wasn’t my thing.”
“Ah, okay. I can imagine. Just the thought of having to see people who were so gruesomely murdered is…” He shivered. “I couldn’t do it.”
“As it turns out, neither could I.”
“So what happened with this serial killer?”
The questions kept coming, each one requiring another lie, another piece of fictional backstory I’d have to remember to keep consistent. Each lie felt like swallowing glass.
By now, we’d moved from the kitchen back to the living room, where I was making sure the fire kept going.
I’d seen the forecast, predicting a couple of inches of snow overnight, followed by a severe drop in temperature.
Minus fifteen Celsius was no joke in a badly insulated cabin like this, so we’d need all the heat we could get.
I made a mental note to chop some more firewood just in case, and maybe we should get some more groceries in case we got snowed in for a bit.
I doubted country roads like the one we were on were a priority for the county, and my BMW was sure as hell not suitable to drive through actual snow, all-wheel drive or not.
“So how do you report back when we have no cell service?” Charles asked, his hands curled around his second mug of coffee.
That one, I could actually answer, considering the plans I’d just made. “I’ll call in when we’re grabbing groceries this afternoon. I figured we could drive to Lake Placid this time, do some walking around there. My boss knows we’re out of signal here, so he’s not expecting me to report daily.”
“Gotcha. I was going to mention we’d need to stock up a bit more. I’ve seen the weather forecast.”
“You have?”
He shrugged. “You can’t really afford not to keep an eye on it when you live in this part of the country. In the Hudson Valley, we don’t get the amounts of snow they get up here, but we still see a fair number of inches.”
I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward and met his eyes. “And what would you say is a fair amount? Six? Seven?”
Charles’s eyes sparkled. “Well, in my experience, weathermen and guys I hook up with have something in common. They always promise me eight inches, but usually it’s more around four.”
A laugh bubbled up inside me. “I won’t promise eight. But a solid six with girth should do, no?”
He wiggled his hand. “Eh, I could make do.”
That had us both laughing.
We spent the rest of the morning reading, then headed out after a simple lunch consisting of egg salad sandwiches…
on home-baked bread. Even after all this time, I still wasn’t a fan of most American bread, the supermarket kind at least. It had too much sugar, was too dry, and the fact that it would hold for four weeks was not a plus in my opinion.
Bread was supposed to go stale after three days.
Which was why I so appreciated Charles’s homemade sourdough—made with Wolfgang—which was light and airy and fecking delicious, especially with the egg salad.
The drive to Lake Placid took us along winding mountain roads that offered breathtaking views of the Adirondack wilderness.
As we crested a hill, the famous ski jump towers came into view—massive concrete structures that looked both graceful and intimidating against the backdrop of autumn mountains.
“Christ, those are bigger than I expected,” I said, slowing down so Charles could get a better look.
“Can you imagine jumping off those things?” Charles shook his head in amazement. “You’d have to be completely insane or have balls the size of watermelons.”
“Both, probably.” I pulled into a scenic overlook so we could appreciate the view properly. The towers dominated the landscape, their clean lines a stark contrast to the natural curves of the mountains surrounding them. “Amazing what humans will do for sport.”
“Says the man who probably has his own collection of death-defying hobbies,” Charles teased.
If only he knew. Three centuries of guardian work had exposed me to more death-defying situations than any extreme sport could offer.
Lake Placid itself was exactly the kind of charming mountain town that belonged on postcards.
Main Street was lined with Victorian buildings housing cozy restaurants, gift shops selling Olympic memorabilia, and outdoor gear stores.
The whole place had an air of faded glory from its Olympic days, but it wore that history well—like an elegant woman who’d aged gracefully and had wonderful stories to tell.
“This is lovely,” Charles said as we walked past a shop window displaying vintage Olympic posters. “Very different from Charming, but it has the same kind of small-town charm.”
I watched Charles take in the sights with genuine appreciation, pointing out architectural details and commenting on the window displays. He had an artist’s eye for beauty, whether it was in cake decorating or noticing the way the afternoon light hit a storefront.
We found a decent-sized grocery store on the edge of town, and Charles immediately went into planning mode, pulling out his phone to make a list of supplies we’d need if we got snowed in for a few days.
“I’m going to make some calls while you shop,” I told him. “Check in with my boss.”
“Of course. Take your time.”
I stepped outside into the crisp mountain air and dialed Gabriel’s number, walking toward a quiet corner of the parking lot where I wouldn’t be overheard.
“Eamon.” Gabriel’s voice was crisp and businesslike. “I was wondering when you’d check in.”
“No signal at the cabin,” I said. “We’re in Lake Placid getting supplies. How’s the situation with Carlo?”
“Escalating. He’s convinced Charles is the leak. He’s been asking around about where Charles might be and discovered Charles has a new boyfriend.”
My blood chilled. “How much does he know?”
“Enough to be dangerous. He knows Charles’s boyfriend is actually an NYPD officer. He’s been making inquiries, trying to get more information about you.”
“And?”
“Our deception there will hold. I’m not worried about that.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“He’ll know by now what car you drive, and with his contacts and a few bribes, he’ll track you down in no time.”
I ran a hand through my hair, watching Charles through the store windows as he carefully selected produce. He looked so normal, so beautifully ordinary, picking out apples and checking them for bruises.
“How much more time do we need?” I asked.
“The NYPD is close. Very close. Their undercover officer says he needs a few more days and he’ll have enough to present to a grand jury. Once he’s indicted, Carlo will be too busy fighting federal charges to worry about Charles.”
“And until then?”
“Until then, you keep your protectee safe and away from Carlo’s reach.” Gabriel paused. “Speaking of which, I trust you’re maintaining appropriate professional boundaries?”
The question hit like a punch to the gut. I watched Charles laugh at something on his phone—probably a text from Solstice or Dani—and felt my chest tighten with longing. “Of course,” I lied.
“Eamon.” Gabriel’s voice carried a warning. “I can hear it in your voice. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever you’re feeling, remember that this is an assignment. Charles Garrity is a job, not a relationship.”
“I know that,” I snapped, my usual defensiveness kicking in. “I’m not some bloody amateur who doesn’t know how to—”
“Then why do you sound like you’re about to break every rule in the book again?”
“I…” I started, then stopped, all my bluster draining away. “Gabriel, I hate this.”
“Hate what?”
“Lying to him. Every day, every conversation, I’m lying to him about who I am, what I am. And he trusts me. He looks at me like I’m…” I swallowed hard. “Like I’m someone worth caring about.”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched so long I wondered if Gabriel had hung up.
“Eamon,” he said finally, and his voice was softer than I’d ever heard it.
“In all the years I’ve known you, through all your complaints and arguments and general insubordination, I have never once heard you express guilt about maintaining your cover. ”
“Well, congratulations. There’s a first time for everything.”
“If you’re developing genuine feelings for your protectee—”
“I like him, and I want to fuck him,” I said, deliberately crude. Maybe if I said it loud enough, I’d be able to drown out that quiet voice inside me that insisted this was so much more than that. “Who the fuck said anything about feelings?”
“You did when you told me you feel guilty.”
My heart squeezed tightly. “He’s nice, and I don’t like lying to him. That’s all.”
Another long silence. “You know why the rules exist. Why we don’t allow personal involvement. It compromises judgment, creates emotional conflicts, and makes it impossible to do the job effectively.”
“I’m doing the job. Charles is safe. I’m focused, I swear.”
“Focus on the job, Eamon. On keeping Charles safe. Is that understood?”
Charles was now at the checkout counter, chatting with the cashier and making her laugh. He had that effect on people—made them feel seen, valued, important. It was one of the thousand things that made me like him so much.
“Understood,” I said, the word scraping my throat raw.
“Good. Keep him safe, keep your distance, and this will all be over soon.”
The line went dead, leaving me standing in a parking lot in Lake Placid, watching the man I was falling for buy groceries and pretending my heart wasn’t breaking into a thousand pieces.
A few days. Maybe a week.
That was all the time I had left before I’d have to say goodbye to Charles Garrity forever, leaving him to wonder what had happened to the detective who’d sworn to protect him.
The man who’d never really existed at all.