14. George
Chapter 14
George
I spend the night at Havenridge Ranch.
Beckett has briefed Angus, who seems poised and alert. The man isn’t known for his conversational skills and creeps around with remarkable stealth, considering his size and height.
But there’s a comfort in spending the night at the ranch house. A sense of family I haven’t experienced since I lost Mom in a car wreck when I was twelve.
The pain of her absence is still sharp more than a decade later. Grief like that doesn’t soften—it burrows deeper and settles into the quiet spaces. But being here, surrounded by the low hum of voices, the aroma of coffee and aged pine, and the occasional grunt from Angus as he patrols the porch like a silent sentinel, soothes something in me I didn’t realize was raw.
Shay and Luna stay up with me for a while. Luna curls into one corner of the couch with a blanket and that wry glint in her eye that says she sees more than she lets on. Shay listens more than she talks tonight, pregnancy fatigue tugging at her eyelids. But her presence is steady, anchoring.
We talk about nothing and everything. The weather. The upcoming summer festival. Small-town nonsense, the kind of talk that used to drive me crazy. Now, I cling to it like it matters.
Because it does.
Because this borrowed belonging, this makeshift sisterhood, is more than I thought I deserved.
By the time I head to bed in the guest room, I feel both full and hollow. Missing my mother. Missing a version of myself who believed love was simple and forever. Wondering when I started letting someone like Beckett Lawson fill those fractured spaces.
And afraid of what it’ll do to me if I lose him, too.
* * *
The next morning, I wake before the sun rises and head to Clover Canyon Auto. Beckett's still gone, and I have a truck to fix for one of the Cutter brothers before noon.
I have work to do, but I’m careful. Angus knows where I am. And after Beckett's warning, I keep my phone on me like a lifeline.
As if my thoughts have summoned him, my phone rings, and Beckett’s name lights up the screen.
“Morning, my little Ewok. You doing okay?” he asks as soon as I answer.
I roll my eyes at his pet name, although it is kind of growing on me. “I’m good. Did you get what you needed?”
“Yep. I’m on my way back. Should be home in about an hour.”
Home? Is that how he thinks of Clover Canyon? My heart does a little skip.
“Good. I’m at Clover Canyon Auto. Had to get Caleb Cutter’s truck finished.”
I hear Beckett’s heavy sigh. “I don’t want you alone, George.”
I can almost picture his glower, and I’m eager to know why he’s so worried about my safety. What did he discover that had him leaving so suddenly?
“Don’t worry. Angus knows where I am. And you’ll be here soon. I’ll have a mug of coffee waiting for you, just how you like it. Strong enough that the spoon stands up in it.”
Beckett groans like I’ve offered him manna from heaven. “You don’t know how good that sounds right now. It’s been a long night.”
I smile. “See you soon, then.”
“Okay. I’ll call your father. Ask him to meet us at the shop. He needs to be there to see what I’ve found.”
“That sounds… ominous.”
“Something like that. See you soon, sweetheart.”
The endearment glides over my skin like a caress as he ends the call.
I set my phone on the workbench and get to work. But my thoughts don’t stray too far from Beckett.
Because I can’t pretend anymore. Not about him.
Beckett has lost people. He carries the grief like shrapnel buried too deep to dig out. And he let me see some of those wounded pieces he keeps hidden. His confession about his past and his quiet, unwavering concern for me shifted something. Or maybe it started long before that. If I’m being honest, it might have begun the moment I first saw him at The Honey Pot—dark temptation wrapped in a Henley and hazel eyes that saw too much. He looked like trouble. The kind a girl with her guard up should avoid. And I tried. God, I tried.
But Beckett didn’t break through my walls; he waited them out. He showed up day after day like he wasn’t afraid of the mess beneath my surface. And now, I don’t just want him. I trust him. With my safety. With the truth.
With my heart?
The realization is staggering.
Am I brave enough to fully embrace him and all we could be? To choose what I want? To choose him?
I shake my head to clear my troubling thoughts and refocus on the vehicle in front of me. I’m halfway through rebuilding the transmission when the hair on the back of my neck stands up like it does before a storm breaks.
There's a stillness to the air that feels... unsettling.
The workshop appears empty. Nothing out of place. No one visible. Yet the sensation persists.
Years of being a cop's daughter have taught me to trust these instincts. Someone's watching.
My fingers find the heavy wrench without looking. Dad's first lesson: anything can be a weapon if you swing it hard enough.
I straighten slowly, my heart kicking against my ribs.
And then I hear the door close.
I spin around, the wrench raised instinctively.
“Easy, George.”
Deputy Marcus Wade stands just inside the shop, blocking the only exit.
He's smiling. But his eyes are wrong.
“Jesus, Marcus,” I snap, forcing calm into my voice. “You trying to get clocked with a wrench?”
He holds up his hands like I’m being silly. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Your dad said you were down here. Thought I’d swing by.”
Bullshit. Dad doesn’t even know I’m here. And that smile—it’s not friendly. It’s not polite. It’s… hungry.
I’m done with this man’s inability to take no for an answer. “Well, you swung. Now swing your ass back out. I’ve got work to do.”
He steps closer.
I back up.
“I just want to talk,” he says softly. “Things got tense with your dad at the fundraiser. I figured you could use a friend.”
“We’re not friends, Marcus. You work for my father, that’s it.”
Something sharp flashes in his eyes. “Right. You’ve got your big, broody bodyguard now. So, what? You let him between your legs, and now there’s no room for anyone else?”
What the…
I bite down on my retort and tighten my grip on the wrench.
“You should’ve picked me, George. It’s what your dad wanted. He worries about you.” The floorboards creak as he steps closer. “He’s not wrong to. The world is full of dangerous people.” Then, lower: “I worry about you, too, George. More than you know.”
This isn't worry; this is possession dressed as protection, and my body knows the difference. My skin crawls everywhere his gaze touches. I know that look. I’ve seen it before in bars and every place a woman is expected to smile and stay polite. But there’s something colder in Marcus. Something that says he doesn’t believe he needs my permission.
Something that says he’s done this before.
Did Beckett know? Is that why he took off? Why he was so worried about my safety?
My gaze flicks to the yard through the partially opened doors—no patrol car. No radio crackling with dispatcher calls.
He's here unofficially.
The shudder that runs through me isn’t from fear—it’s pure rage. I plant my feet and square my shoulders. “It’s time for you to leave, Marcus. Beckett is on his way here. And so is my father. And I’m guessing whatever Beckett wants to talk to Dad and me about has something to do with you. Something you don’t want exposed.”
He doesn’t react the way I expect. Doesn’t look concerned. He tips his head to the side, examining me with cold eyes. “I heard your daddy talking to Beckett last night at the office. Heard enough to know he's sniffing where he shouldn't be. A man like that won't stop until he’s ripped the lid off everything.”
I stay still, wrench poised, calculating distances. The office to my right. My phone on the bench to my left.
“What did you do?” I whisper.
He sighs. “Long story, Georgina. I’ll tell you on the way.”
Ice trickles down my spine. “On the way where?”
“Out of town. You’re right. It’s time for me to leave. And you’re coming with me. You’re my insurance out of this state. The sheriff’s little girl. Beckett’s soft spot.” He smirks. “You never know. I might even have time to make you my soft spot before I’m done with you.”
Nausea churns in my stomach. Who the hell is this man? The charming deputy who’s successfully fooled the whole town for years with his friendly disposition and willingness to help?
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say quietly. “Take another step, and I’ll show you how inventive I can be with a wrench. If you think you can scare me into falling in line, you’ve picked the wrong fucking woman.”
His hand is a blur as it shoots out, wrapping around my wrist. His grip tightens like a vise, his thumb pressing into the soft hollow where my pulse hammers while his fingers dig into the underside where skin barely covers bone. A sharp, electric pain shoots up my arm as he pinches the nerve. My fingers go numb and useless, and the wrench clatters to the floor.
“That's not very friendly, George.” His voice drops an octave, a growl lurking beneath.
My stomach churns, bile rising. Every cell in my body rejects his touch.
“Let. Go.” Each word is its own sentence, its own warning as I palm the other wrench in my back pocket with my free hand.
His fingers dig deeper, hard enough to leave marks. “Make me.”
So I do.
Because Dad didn't raise a victim; he raised a fighter.
I swing my arm, and the wrench smashes into his temple with a satisfying thunk that vibrates through my entire body. Metal connects with flesh and bone. Marcus’s breath whooshes out, his eyes widening in shock that transforms into feral rage as blood bubbles and trickles down his face. This isn't a man used to resistance.
I twist away, using his momentum to slam him into the workbench. Tools clatter to the floor, along with my phone.
My heart slams against my ribs, but muscle memory takes over. Dad's voice echoes in my head: Fight dirty, Georgina. This is survival . Go for vulnerable spots. Eyes. Throat. Groin. Fight to win.
Marcus recovers faster than I expect, lunging forward with a snarl that doesn't sound human. His hand goes to his hip. Metal glints in the workshop's harsh light—a gun.
The workshop door bangs open with a crack like thunder.
Beckett fills the doorway, a shadow come to life. His body is coiled tension, his stillness more threatening than movement. His burning gaze is fixed on Marcus. This isn't the man who kisses me like I'm precious. This is Shadow—the former Navy SEAL who hunts in darkness.
Every cell in my body reaches toward him like he's gravity. Pride and something deeper, something I’m almost ready to name, surge through my chest. I handled myself. Proved I'm not helpless. But for the first time, I understand what it feels like to have backup I trust with my life.
“Touch her again,” Beckett says, his voice a quiet rumble that raises goosebumps along my arms, “and you won't get back up.”