23. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Beau
Jamie looks up from a stack of topographical maps spread across his desk, and the expression that crosses his face is part surprise, part satisfaction, and entirely knowing.
"Well, well, well," he says, leaning back in his chair. The smug asshole has been waiting for this moment for three years. "If it isn't Beau Callahan. To what do I owe the—"
"I'm not here to chat, Jamie."
I close the door behind me and move to the chair across from his desk, inviting myself onto the seat opposite him.
"Molly could be in trouble, and I think I might need your help."
His expression shifts immediately, all traces of amusement disappearing as he switches into tactical coordinator mode. It's a look I remember from Afghanistan, when shit was about to hit the fan and lives depended on making the right call.
"Talk to me," he says simply.
I reach into my jacket and pull out the documents I've been carrying since three this morning, when I couldn't stand lying in bed next to Molly's sleeping form while my mind raced through worst-case scenarios.
I slide the documents across his desk, my hands steadier than they have any right to be considering I haven't slept.
That package sat like a time bomb in my mind right from the moment we got home. Swarming my thoughts about Riley finding her. Riley coming here. Riley taking her back.
The idea of his fucking hands on her makes my blood turn to ice.
Not happening. Not while I breathe.
"There was a package addressed to Molly delivered to Johnson's Auto," I tell Jamie, spreading the papers across his desk. "Molly doesn't know. But I opened it last night."
Jamie's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't comment on the invasion of privacy. Instead, he leans forward to examine the documents, and I watch his face darken as he reads.
Legal threats. Manipulation tactics. Claims that Molly violated some bullshit engagement contract by leaving without "proper notification."
It's complete financial intimidation designed to force her back into Riley's control.
"Jesus Christ," Jamie mutters, looking up at me. "Your brother's a real piece of work, isn't he?"
"Fuck off. He's not my brother," I say flatly. "Not anymore. And I'm certain he's been tracking her social media posts. Every location, every routine, every detail of our life here. He knows exactly where to find her."
Jamie nods grimly, setting the papers aside.
"Classic stalker playbook. Psychological warfare first, then escalation.
" He pauses, studying my face. "Good to see you've still got those old military instincts, Big Guy.
" He leans forward, a tiny smile crawling along his lips.
"Hey, you remember that time in Afghanistan when you sensed that ambush three clicks before anyone else? You saved our entire unit, you know."
The memory hits me like a freight train.
Jamie Striker, the man sitting right in front of me was twenty pounds lighter and a decade younger, crouched behind a crumbling wall while insurgent fire peppered the building around us. Me, gut churning with that familiar wrongness that meant we were walking into a trap.
"I remember," I say quietly.
"You always could read a situation better than anyone I served with."
Jamie's voice carries the weight of shared history, shared survival. His scars don't run as deep as mine, but I know they're still there.
"I trust you, Beau. If you think he's coming, he's coming."
The relief of being understood, of having someone take my concerns seriously instead of dismissing them as paranoia, makes something tight in my chest loosen for the first time since I opened that package.
"So what's the play?" Jamie asks, already reaching for a notebook.
"I need to know what resources we have if things go sideways. Backup plans." I pause, hating what I'm about to ask. "And I need to know if the team will have my back if I have to choose between following protocol and protecting what matters most."
Jamie's grin is sharp and completely reassuring. "Brother, you've been part of this team since the day you moved to Stone River. You just haven't been ready to admit it." He flips open the notebook. "Now, let's plan how to handle your psychotic sibling."
We spend the next twenty minutes going over contingencies, safe houses, communication efforts to keep Molly safe if the worst was to happen.
It feels like old times—two soldiers planning for battle, covering every angle, preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.
"So," Jamie says as I gather up the documents, "does this mean you're finally ready to join the team officially?"
I grunt, not trusting myself to voice the answer out loud.
But internally, the words are crystal clear: Maybe. But first, I need to make sure I protect my girl.
***
I keep myself busy in town throughout the day. My body somehow just goes through the motions while my mind stays locked on Molly.
Every twenty minutes, I text Jamie: All good?
Every twenty minutes, he responds: She's fine. Stop texting me.
Only knowing that she's surrounded by ex-military and first responders lets me breathe. These men will protect her like their own, but that doesn't stop me from arriving three hours early to pick her up and take her back home.
By the time I get back to the cabin, Molly's changed into a soft green sweater that makes her eyes look like sunlit forests, and she's curled up on my couch flicking through her phone.
The sight of her, safe and perfect in my space, even with that damn device in her hands, makes something primal and possessive surge in my chest.
"So," she says, looking up with a smile. "How did your mysterious meeting go?"
"Fine," I lie, because I'm not ready to shatter her peace with the reality of what's coming. "Actually, I was thinking we should go out tonight. Celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"You. Your new job. Us." I move to the couch and pull her against my side, breathing in that vanilla scent that's become essential to my sanity. "When's the last time I took my woman somewhere nice?"
Her smile becomes radiant. "We literally went out last week. You always take me out somewhere nice."
"Well maybe this time it's different."
I don't tell her it's because I can't stand the idea of sitting at home watching over her all night, every shadow becoming a threat.
I don't tell her how the thought of her out of my sight right fills me with a panic I haven't felt since those long nights in hostile territory, when every rustle in the darkness could mean death.
Instead, I swallow down the fear like bitter medicine and focus on her smile, on making tonight perfect for her, because that's what she deserves.
"Maybe I'm asking you to go on a date with me."
"A date?" She gives me a quizzical look that means she's totally not buying my bull shit.
"Yep. A date."
"Well, in that case," she says, rising on her toes to press a soft kiss to my jaw. "Absolutely yes."
Two hours later, we're settled into our usual corner booth at Timber Tavern, and I've managed to temporarily push my concerns aside in favor of spoiling the woman I love.
The intimate lighting makes Molly's skin glow like she's been touched by firelight.
"This is gorgeous," Molly sighs, running her fingers along the smooth wood grain of the table.
"And these cocktails..." She holds up her glass, which contains something pink and sparkling that Charlie whipped up for her.
"I feel like I'm in some exclusive ski lodge that costs a thousand dollars a night. "
"And don't you deserve to feel like that every day," I tell her, meaning every word.
She's got on that green sweater paired with dark jeans that hug her curves, and her hair is loose around her shoulders, catching the candlelight with every flick she makes.
The cocktail has put a flush in her cheeks, and she's relaxed in a way that makes me want to freeze this moment forever.
"You're staring," she observes with a grin.
"Hard not to," I reply, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "Most beautiful woman in the place."
"Flatterer."
But she's pleased, and that little spark in her eyes makes me want to drag her home and remind her exactly how beautiful I think she is.
We order Charlie's famous elk medallions, which arrive on beds of truffle risotto so creamy it borders on sinful. Steam rises from the perfectly seared meat, carrying the earthy aroma of wild herbs and that signature black garlic rub recipe Charlie guards like his life depends on it.
The roasted vegetables glisten with a honey-balsamic glaze, arranged in a rainbow cascade that's too pretty to disturb. Almost.
"This is incredible," Molly says around a bite of perfectly cooked elk. "How does Charlie make everything taste like it belongs in a five-star restaurant?"
"Secret ingredient," I say with mock seriousness. "Mountain magic."
She laughs, the sound bright and genuine, and for a moment I let myself believe we can stay in this bubble forever. That Riley will stay wherever the hell he's been hiding and leave us alone to build our perfect life.
But then Charlie appears beside our table with an expression that makes my stomach drop.
"Hey folks," he says, wiping his hands on a towel. "Don't want to worry you, but there was this guy in earlier asking lots of questions about Molly. Tall, well-dressed, had that fake charm thing going. Gave me the creeps."
The color drains from Molly's face so fast I think she might faint. "What kind of questions?"
"Oh, you know. How long you'd been in town, where you worked, whether you lived alone. Real casual, but..." Charlie shrugs. "I've been tending bar long enough to spot trouble when it walks through my door. Just thought it might be worth mentioning in case you know anything."
"What did you tell him?" I ask, my voice carefully controlled even as rage builds in my chest.