Chapter 15
Jake
It’s Thursday morning, the first day of my security job for Sterling Financial, and I’m discovering that avoiding Daisy isn’t nearly as easy when we’re sharing a bathroom and need to be out the door around the same time.
After that awkward brush-off earlier in the week, I’ve spent my nights back on the sofa outside the bedroom. My shoulder’s screaming from the lack of support, and my back’s not thanking me either, but on the plus side, sleeping light means I’m up and out for my pre-dawn run without disturbing her.
This morning, I key in as quietly as I can, but I’m back earlier than normal on account of the security job, and she’s still here. Wordlessly, I grab my gear and head for a quick shower, leaving her in the kitchen. As I’m toweling off, I hear her voice through the thin walls.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I crack the bathroom door. “Everything okay?”
“Coffee maker’s broken.” Her voice carries that edge it gets when technology fails her—which, given her profession, probably happens less often to her than to others. “And I have exactly twelve minutes to get ready or I’ll be late.”
I step out, still buttoning my shirt. She’s standing at the kitchen counter in a skirt that hangs low on her hips and shows a sliver of skin between her cropped tee and the shiny silk skirt.
Focus, Ryder.
“We’ll grab coffee on the way,” I say, forcing my eyes to stay north of her collarbone.
She turns, and the movement pulls the fabric more tightly across her ass.
I’ve seen plenty of women in less, but something about Daisy—maybe it’s the fierce concentration on her face, maybe it’s the way she’s completely unconscious of how she looks, maybe it’s the kiss she never wants to repeat—hits different.
“Why’d it have to break today? It’s your first day at work. You need your caffeine fix, too.”
“I’ll survive.” The words come out rough and for a split second I wonder if she can tell coffee’s not top of mind.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, something passes between us. Heat. Recognition. The acknowledgment that we’re playing house and maybe we’re playing at something else too.
Then she blinks and steps back. “Right. Twelve minutes.”
She disappears upstairs, and I spend those twelve minutes reminding myself why tangling in the sheets with the woman I’m supposed to be protecting is a bad idea.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re both sporting damp hair and her lips are glossy as we walk into the coffee shop. My black suit fits well—tight across the shoulders, and a touch boxy at the waist. The holster sits snug against my ribs, concealed but accessible.
The morning crowd moves with practiced efficiency; everyone locked into their routines.
I catalog exits, sightlines, and uncover zero likely threats.
The barista with the neck tattoos keeps glancing at the register—skimming tips or planning something bigger?
The guy in the corner booth nurses a coffee, laptop closed, watching the door.
“You’re doing it again,” Daisy murmurs as we wait in line.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you scan everyone like they might draw a gun.”
She’s not wrong. “Occupational hazard.”
“Which occupation? The military one or the security one?”
“Both.”
We reach the counter, and she orders something with three shots of espresso and enough syllables to qualify as a foreign language. I stick with black coffee, large, and add my own sugar.
Back on the sidewalk, headed toward Sterling Financial, I spot Phillip Sterling and Ms. Weaver approaching from the opposite direction. They’re walking close, heads bent together in conversation.
“Those two spend a lot of time together,” I say, slowing a hair to watch them. “You notice that?”
“Yeah, I have.” Daisy sips her complicated coffee concoction. “Today I’ll ask the lunch crew what’s going on with them. If there’s any tea to spill, they’ll pour the kettle.”
I watch Sterling’s body language as they walk. His hand hovers near the small of Ms. Weaver’s back without quite touching. Intimate but careful. “Sure seem friendly.”
“He’s not married, but based on her rings, she is. Could be they’re just work buddies.” She pauses. “If it were anything seriously scandalous, it probably would’ve come up at lunch already.”
Sterling may not be married, but if he’s stepping out with a subordinate while running a potentially fraudulent investment scheme, then those actions create a profile. Character tells you everything you need to know about a person’s capacity for deception.
“Well,” I say, turning to face Daisy as Sterling and Ms. Weaver close the distance, “wish me luck on my first day, darlin’.”
The endearment slips out—pure Georgia reflex—and her chin tilts up in response. Her lips, still glossy from her makeup application, part slightly. For a heartbeat, she looks like she expects something. A kiss, maybe.
If we were really dating, I would. Hell, if we were really dating, I wouldn’t have spent the last four nights on that torture device masquerading as a sofa.
“Jake, good morning,” Ms. Weaver’s voice cuts through the moment. She and Sterling have reached us, and she’s smiling that professional smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “The suit looks good on you. Very...authoritative.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I straighten slightly, letting a little more drawl color my voice. People underestimate Southern politeness, assuming it means pliable.
“Daisy,” Sterling jumps in, and I don’t miss how his gaze slides over her before meeting her eyes. “We still have time blocked out this afternoon, right?”
“Two o’clock,” she confirms, switching into bright, efficient assistant mode. The transformation is seamless—from casual real self to respectful subordinate.
“Perfect.” Sterling’s smile is all teeth. “Jake, I’ll meet you in Ms. Weaver’s office in ten minutes. I want to discuss your role personally.”
As we cross the street, I catch Sterling watching us in my peripheral vision. More specifically, watching Daisy walk away. His gaze drops and lingers, and something dark and possessive flares in my chest.
Easy, soldier.
But the feeling doesn’t fade. Rich bastards like Sterling think they can take whatever they want, look at whoever they want, consequences be damned. The same entitlement that let him steal from veterans probably extends to how he treats women.
Inside the building, I walk Daisy to the elevator bank. The lobby’s sparse—no security desk, no obvious cameras, just marble floors, reception, and expensive-looking art that screams, “We have money to waste.”
Poor security starts with poor design. Too many blind spots, too many access points, not enough controlled choke points.
The elevator in the lobby arrives and we step in together. She pushed the third floor and I push the fourth to report in for my first day. We ride up in silence, but I keep thinking about Sterling eyeing Daisy.
The doors open and as she steps out, I step forward and wedge my foot in the doorway to keep it open, pulling her toward me for a quick, possessive kiss. It’s supposed to be for show—establish our cover, make it clear she’s taken—but the moment our lips meet, the pretense evaporates.
Her hand comes up to rest against my jaw, thumb brushing over my mouth when we break apart.
“Have a good day, sweets,” she says, eyes sparkling with something that might be mischief.
The elevator doors close, and I’m left standing in the elevator like an idiot, the taste of coffee and Daisy lingering on my lips.
Sweets.
Yeah, that’s exactly the problem.
I find Ms. Weaver’s office on the fourth floor, the executive floor.
Her office is a study in controlled elegance—everything in its place, nothing personal visible except a single photo of her, a teenage boy, and a golden retriever.
I settle into the chair across from her desk and wait while she arranges papers that don’t need arranging.
“Now, Jake, I’m going to be straight with you,” she begins, finally looking up. “We’ve never hired private security before.”
Interesting choice of words. During the interview, she’d danced around this fact without outright lying, but she’s being “straight” with me now.
“Of the candidates we interviewed, you’re by far the most qualified. I’d like your input on how we should structure this arrangement.”
I lean back slightly, fingers drumming against the chair’s armrest. “If we’re being straight, then I need full disclosure on threats and risks. Security’s only as effective as the intelligence behind it.”
“Of course.” She smooths her skirt, a nervous gesture. “Our insurance company has been...encouraging us to take this step.”
“Encouraging how?”
“They’ve made it clear that our current coverage might be...inadequate given our risk profile.”
That’s the spin she gave me in the interview. “What kind of risks are we talking about? Specific threats against Mr. Sterling? Against the company?”
Her fingers pause in their paper-shuffling. “We haven’t received any written threats, no. But there are investors who are...unhappy with recent performance. Some people don’t understand that high-risk investments come with the possibility of total loss.”
She’s choosing her words too carefully. In my experience, when people work that hard to avoid saying something directly, it’s because the truth is worse than they want to admit.
“Any of these unhappy investors escalate beyond angry phone calls?”
“There have been some heated conversations, yes. Legal threats—through attorneys, you understand. But nothing...physical.”
The pause before “physical” tells me everything. Someone’s made threats, just not ones they can prove in court.
“What about online? Social media, forums, anything like that?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Another careful nonanswer.
I shift forward, letting some steel enter my voice. “Ma’am, I can’t protect you from threats I don’t know about. If someone’s been making noise—even informal noise—I need details.”