21. Chapter Twenty #2
"That's not the point." My voice comes out harsh, too harsh, and she flinches. "Look, I'm sorry. But there are a lot of freaks out there, Molly. People who see a beautiful woman living her perfect life and decide they want a piece of it. Or a piece of her. "
Molly's eyes jerk in a snappy gesture to Maisie, who's too occupied in her treehouse to be bothered by the rising tensions beneath her.
"You're being paranoid."
"Am I?" I gesture to her phone. "How many of these people do you actually know?"
"Well... none of them, technically. Because they're just followers . It's not like they're dangerous." She pauses, her confidence maybe wavering slightly. "Although there was that one weird comment I deleted and blocked..."
My blood goes cold. "What kind of comment?"
"Nothing major! Just someone asking exactly where I lived. Where the scenery shots were taken from. I blocked them immediately."
" Fuck, " I groan and drag a hand down my face.
Operational security compromised. The thought hits me like an old military habit. Location potentially identified. Pattern of life established.
"When was this?"
"A few days ago. Beau, you're scaring me. It's just social media." She steps closer to me and clings to my shirt. "Please, I don't want to fight. I'll stop posting if that's what you want."
I force myself to take a breath, to dial back the intensity before I completely ruin this perfect day.
She's right—I'm probably being paranoid.
This is civilian life, not a war zone. Normal people take photos. Normal people share their lives online.
But the soldier in me doesn't give a shit about normal. The soldier in me is living a life of constantly calculating sight lines and exit strategies, and now I'm also fucking wondering who else knows exactly where Molly Jennings sleeps every night.
"You're right," I lie, pulling her closer. "And you shouldn't stop doing something you love just because it makes me feel uncomfortable. I'm just not used to having my private life on display."
"I can stop posting pictures of you if it makes you uncomfortable."
"You haven't posted my face, so I guess it's fine." Because asking her to change her behavior makes me the controlling asshole, and I refuse to be that guy. "Just... maybe be careful about details? Locations, schedules, that kind of thing?"
"Of course." She rises on her toes to kiss my jaw. "I love you, you paranoid mountain man."
"Love you too."
"Ready for surprise number one?" I ask as I lead her unknowingly out the gate and toward the auto shop, Molly's hand warm in mine.
"There's more than one surprise?" She laughs, swinging our joined hands between us. "The treehouse wasn't enough?"
"That was for Maisie. This one's for you."
Johnson's Auto looks the same as always from the outside—weathered building, ancient signage, the kind of place that's been fixing cars since before I was born.
But inside the bay, covered by a tarp like a prize at a car show, sits my real surprise.
"Johnson!" I call out. "She ready?"
The old mechanic appears from beneath the hood of a pickup, wiping his hands on a rag that's seen better days. "Been ready since yesterday, old boy. Just waiting on you."
He walks to the covered car and grabs one corner of the tarp. "You want to do the honors?"
I shake my head. "Let her see it."
Johnson whips away the tarp with theatrical flair, and Molly's gasp echoes through the garage.
Her car sits gleaming under the fluorescent lights, but it's not the same vehicle that limped into town three weeks ago.
The dents have been hammered out and the paint refreshed to a deep, rich blue that makes the whole car look like it just rolled off the lot. The interior has been completely redone—new upholstery, new carpeting, everything clean and fresh and perfect.
"Beau..." she breathes, walking around the car like she's afraid to touch it. "This isn't just an engine repair."
"Figured if you're staying in the mountains, you should have reliable transportation." I run my hand along the hood, remembering the conversations I had with Johnson about materials, colors, timeline. "She'll handle these roads now. New gearbox and tires, upgraded suspension, the works."
"You had them restore the entire car?"
"Maybe."
She spins to face me, eyes bright with tears. "Beau! This must have cost a fortune."
"It's an investment," I say simply. "In your safety. In your independence."
"Beau, I can't—"
"You can, and you will." I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing away the tears that have started to fall. "You deserve beautiful things, Molly. You deserve to feel safe and taken care of."
"I already feel safe. With you."
The simple declaration hits me harder than it should. She feels safe with me. After everything she's been through, everything that bastard put her through, she trusts me to keep her safe.
That's something I'll never take for granted. Never.
"Good," I say roughly. "That's the point."
"Though I have to admit," she says, a grin tugging at her lips, "I'm going to miss our daily drives to work. That was my favorite part of the day."
Something warm and possessive unfurls in my chest. "Mine too."
"Maybe we should trade," she suggests playfully. "I'll take your massive truck to work, and you can drive my cute little car around town. Really embrace that mountain man aesthetic."
The image of my six-foot-four frame folded into her car makes me snort. "I'd look ridiculous."
"You'd look adorable. Can you imagine Etta and Mabel's reaction? They'd probably fall right off their gossip bench."
"They'd have a field day," I groan, but I'm fighting a smile. "Next thing you know, they'd be telling everyone I've gone soft. Started wearing pastels. Maybe taken up knitting."
"Oh God." Molly's whole face lights up. "Please tell me you know how to knit. I would pay good money to see those hands working tiny needles."
"Woman, I will throw you in that hot tub fully clothed."
She just grins wider. "Promises, promises, Callahan."
Johnson clears his throat, breaking through the moment of pure joy and elation with my girl. "Uh, Beau? Almost forgot. The parts delivery guy left something for her."
He gestures toward the passenger seat, where a small package sits on the pristine new upholstery.
"Must have gotten delivered to our shop by mistake," Johnson explains. "Said it was for Molly Jennings, figured it was yours since you've been here every day asking about the car."
Molly opens the passenger door and picks up the package, and I watch her face change as she reads the address label.
"What is it?" I ask, though something cold is already settling in my gut.
"This is my old address," she says slowly. "My apartment in the city."
The cold in my gut spreads, bringing with it the familiar hyperawareness of a threat assessment within the ranks.
Someone knows her old name.
Someone knows her old address.
Someone tracked her to this town, to this shop, with enough precision to have a package delivered to the exact location where she'd find it.
This isn't random. This isn't a mistake.
This is someone who's been watching. Learning. Planning.
"Don't open it," I say, my voice carrying the command authority I haven't used since leaving the service.
"What?"
"Don't open it."
I take the package from her hands, noting the weight, the shape, the way it's been wrapped.
"Beau, you're scaring me."
"Good," I say grimly, already calculating routes and timelines and how quickly I can get her back to the cabin safely.
Because if there is one thing I'm not ready to do, it's letting anything happen to her.