Chapter 2
TWO
JACK
Valor Springs, Texas
Present day
I’ve taken bullets in Kandahar, rappelled off embassy roofs in Bahrain, and once defused a car bomb in a suit and tie without spilling my coffee.
But none of that prepared me for Stella Hart.
The woman is chaos in pink sneakers.
Frosting on my chest. Laughs like bells. Mouth like sunshine. And I can’t stop watching her.
She’s across the square now, crouched next to a crying kid who scuffed his knee. Her hands are gentle, her voice soft. She makes the kid smile in under ten seconds. I don’t know how she does that, but if the Pentagon knew how to bottle whatever she runs on, we’d win every war without firing a shot.
“Jack.” Dillon’s voice crackles in my earpiece. “Status?”
“Square is stable,” I reply, eyes still locked on Stella as she places a bandaid over the kid’s bloody knee. “Minor incident earlier. Top bale fell off the stack behind the float lineup. Nobody hurt.”
There’s a pause. “Accident?”
“Could be,” I say, but my gut disagrees. The cut on the twine was too clean. And the fact that Stella was exactly in the fall zone? Not a coincidence I like.
“Keep eyes on the Hart girl,” Dillon adds. “Wyatt said there’ve been some close calls lately. He’s concerned.”
“I watched a brake line from her car roll in like spaghetti this morning when the deputy dropped it off,” Nash says through his comm. “Something’s up.”
“Wait. Her brake line was cut?” I ask, my heart beat speeding up. I don’t like this one bit.
“Yeah, Wyatt’s concerned,” Dillon adds.
“I’ll stay close.” It’s non-negotiable.
“Copy that.”
The comm goes quiet. I tug my earpiece loose and slide my sunglasses down. It’s getting too easy to look at her and forget the job. She’s…a lot. In all the best, most dangerous ways.
Stella moves like the world is good. Like it’s worth smiling at, like everyone deserves a second cookie and a first chance. I don’t know how someone like her survives a world like this, let alone makes it brighter.
Wyatt pulls me aside. “Favor?”
I nod. “Always. What’s up?” I tear my gaze from Stella and focus on her brother. I don’t like the way he’s staring at me. Like there’s a secret he’s about to let me in on.
“I talked with Grayson, and together we think somebody needs to watch Stella. She won’t ask for help. She’ll say she’s fine. But I’ve seen her brakes fail, her mailbox smashed, her back porch light shattered three times. If you don’t...”
I cut in before he can finish his sentence. “I’m on it.” No hesitation.
He visibly relaxes. “Thanks, man. I don’t know what all this means yet, but call it a hunch, something’s just not right.”
I nod. “Yeah, for sure. Something’s up, and we’ll keep her safe until you figure it out.”
We shake hands, and he’s off.
I return my attention back to the woman I can’t stop watching. I’m too old for her. Too jaded. Too disciplined.
And yet.
She glances my way just then, brushing hair out of her face, lips curved in a half-smile like she’s remembering something funny.
Her nose is a little sunburned. There’s a streak of frosting on her arm she hasn’t noticed.
And I feel it again—that same pull. The irrational one.
The one that makes me want to cross a street I’ve spent my whole life keeping clear.
Not happening. I don’t cross lines. Not with clients. Not with little sisters of men I respect. Not even if they laugh like that.
I force myself to do a perimeter check. My boots move automatically, but my thoughts stay stuck.
She called me her cupcake hero.
She didn’t flinch when I grabbed her. Just looked up at me with those big brown eyes and asked if I was allergic to cherries.
God help me, she’s adorable.
But adorable gets people killed. Adorable is the girl you take home after the mission—not the one you try to keep alive during it.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling something’s off. The hay bale wasn’t random. The way it toppled—timed perfectly for when she walked by—sets every instinct I have on edge.
My phone buzzes a while later.
Wyatt: She still breathing?
Me: Mostly frosting and adrenaline, but yeah. She’s fine.
Wyatt: Good. Mrs. Kershaw’s asking if she’s bringing a date to the two-step tonight. That’s your in.
I groan under my breath. Great. A town dance. The worst possible place to protect a woman who draws chaos like a magnet and looks like a heartache wrapped in a sundress.
“Sir?”
I turn. Young officer. New. Maybe fresh out of the academy. “Sinclair?”
“There’s a report of someone tampering with the fireworks trailer down by the high school. The sheriff wants someone to stay here while they check it out.”
“I’ll stay,” I say without thinking. Because Stella’s here. And I’m not going anywhere.
The officer nods and jogs off.
Across the square, she’s talking to the PTA lady again, smiling that easy, patient smile like she was born to manage sugar and glitter and mayhem. A little girl runs past her, trips, and Stella catches her mid-stumble like she has reflexes trained by love and muscle memory.
I remember women like her from another life. Before the service. Before I learned how to lie still and breathe through explosions. They’d sit in the bleachers with lunchboxes and hope in their eyes, watching the game like the world might turn out okay.
Back then, I thought I’d marry one. I thought I'd have a normal life. A yard. A porch swing. A woman like Stella, who’d teach kids to read and bake cookies that don’t come from a store.
Then things changed.
Now I keep people alive. I keep my promises. And I keep my distance.
But damn if Stella Hart isn’t the first person in a long time who makes me want to forget that.
A new text flashes across my screen.
Stella: Is an almost “minor hay bale concussion” covered by Lone Star’s insurance? Asking for a friend.
I smile.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
Me: Only if the frosting-to-danger ratio is above 2:1.
Stella: Excellent. I qualify.
I don’t reply. Just watch her slip behind the bake sale table again, unaware that someone might be trying to hurt her. Unaware that I’ve already started keeping score on who gets close.
She’s not just a job. Not anymore.
And if someone is targeting her? They better pray I never find out who.
Because I’ve got rules. But for Stella?
I’ll break every damn one.