Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Alicia
“If I understand you correctly, Robert”—I glance at the timer on my phone: thirty minutes; Lord, this man can talk—“You’d like for me to meet with your PR team to coach them on rehabilitating the image of oil and gas.”
“Image isn’t the word I’d choose. It’s the public perception. We’ve been under fire for decades and our lobbying team has spent so much time focused on legislation we haven’t paid enough attention to public perception and that’s—”
“I’m going to stop you right there, Robert. I think you’ve misunderstood what I do.”
“You’re the fixer.”
“Sir, Morgan & Company manages crisis communications and public affairs for politicians, celebrities, and major organizations facing scandal. We develop strategies to protect reputations and navigate crises.”
“I know,” he drawls. “That’s why you’re perfect. All I want is for you to come in and train my people for a day. Talk with us. Consult. I know you usually work with individuals, but we’re an organization.”
I have absolutely no desire to work with the lobbying arm of oil and gas.
“Name your price.”
I close my eyes, exhale slowly. “Tell you what, Robert. Let me give it some thought. I’m not currently accepting new clients—”
“Now we both know that’s not true. When a crisis hits, you’re there. And this is a crisis.”
“Let me think on it. Perhaps I can send someone—”
“No, ma’am. We want you.”
Thirty-three minutes. If I end this now, I can still save the hour.
“Thank you for the call, Robert. I don’t believe we’re the best fit. I wish you well.”
With quiet satisfaction, I end the call.
Was that shortsighted of me?
My father’s stern voice infiltrates the silence—Business is business. If you don’t do what you need to do to get ahead, someone else will leapfrog right over you.
“Sorry, Dad,” I murmur to the empty room. “I’ve built this company from the ground up. I’ve earned the right to say no.”
I have more business than I can manage—and what keeps me grounded is that my clients have faces. They may have screwed up, but there’s always someone behind the headlines: children, parents, employees. People who rely on them. Most just want a way through the storm, a chance to do better.
Maybe it’s na?ve, but it’s how I rationalize what I do. And I have zero interest in crafting smoke and mirrors to cloud the transparency of a lobbying group.
I scan my email, determine nothing requires a response before tomorrow, and push up from my desk, done for the day.
I cross the hall, enter my closet, and change into a cashmere lounge set, taking care to box my heels and place my slacks and blouse in the drycleaning pile.
I always dress professionally, even when working from home.
One never knows when a crisis might arise—or when one might have to face the press.
It’s early to be finished, and maybe I’m tempting fate by ending my workday before six, but I promised myself I’d cook dinner for Stella tonight. There’s a glass of wine near the stove with my name on it.
It’s early evening, but the sun has set and outside a blend of red brake lights and white headlights blurs. The back patio is lit via floodlight, casting a golden glow.
As I pour myself a glass of wine before setting about cooking dinner, I watch Noah Bennett.
He appears to be studying the roofline. The collar of his jacket is raised to his angular jaw, his dark hair cropped short with military precision.
Even at this distance, the faint scar through one eyebrow gives his face a harder edge.
A scarf covers his neck. He was tall and undeniably attractive, warm bronze skin and hard angles softened only by the quiet steadiness of his expression.
The kind of man women noticed first and only afterward began to study.
KOAN provided his resume when he worked on Senator Crawford’s case. Joined the Army at eighteen, multiple deployments. Speaks conversational Spanish, basic Arabic, and Pashto. Expert marksman, martial arts training, tactical driving, first aid certified.
Thirty-one. Born in 1995.
So many choices still ahead.
I pull ingredients from the refrigerator—salmon, potatoes, herbs for the salad—and my mind drifts to where I was myself at his age.
Juggling a newborn, an unraveling marriage, postpartum depression, and a fledgling business I refused to let die.
He’s out there assessing rooflines. I was trying to keep my life from collapsing.
I wonder what it’s like—to end a day and actually be done.
No responsibilities. No one depending on you.
It’s hard not to envy that.
His deep brown eyes meet mine through the glass, pinning me in place. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring. I nod—unembarrassed. He’s on my patio, after all. And a man like him is probably used to catching stares.
His easy view inside to me is a reminder that at dusk, my house turns into a fishbowl. I grab the remote and press a button. The soft whir of descending shades fills the silence. Privacy restored, I cue up an evening playlist and check my phone, tracking Stella’s location.
Her father passes her school on the way home, so he’ll pick her up after play practice and bring her home. She should be back by now, but sometimes practice runs long. Based on her location, she’s still at school. I hope that means play practice is running long, and Richard isn’t running late.
A knock at the front door startles me. When I open it, Noah stands there, framed in the street lights.
“You have a key. You can come in.”
A slow, subtle smile spreads. “It’s still your home. I want to be respectful.”
“Well, come on in. Did you decide we’re safe for the night?”
“After you lowered the shades—yes. I checked the sightlines around your house—the shades are effective.”
The door clicks closed behind him. “My friend, Dorian, insisted I hire professionals to outfit the place when I purchased this house. Hence, shades.”
“Did you move in recently?”
“After my divorce—or, well, separation, really. So…” I run through the years, the separation, moving out of our marital home against my lawyer’s advice, buying this place against my friend’s recommendations, Stella having to adjust to two homes when she was in first grade…
“About six years? Would you like some wine?” I offer, padding silently in my fuzzy socks back to the kitchen.
A chill entered the house when I opened the door, so I click a button and the gas fireplace comes to life with golden flames.
“Oh, I don’t want to be in your way,” he’s quick to say.
“Please. Join us. I don’t always cook dinner, but I did tonight and there’s more than Stella and I can eat. Since you’ll be around, it’s better that she meets you in a friendly setting in case you cross paths, and besides, I don’t like drinking alone.”
That last bit isn’t exactly true, as a glass of wine at the end of the day is my ritual. If I’m not out for a work event or dinner, I drink that glass alone and find it therapeutic. But tonight, saying it feels welcoming.
He unbuttons his coat and pulls at the scarf looped around his neck.
“Here,” I offer, taking both, “I’ll put them in the entry closet.”
He hands them over and I can’t help but notice the pull of the sweater across his chest, his broad shoulders, and the narrow waist. Definitely fit.
I return from the closet to find Noah standing by the kitchen island, hands resting lightly on the marble countertop, his gaze tracking the room with quiet assessment. Even relaxed, he’s watchful, evidenced by the way his shoulders angle toward the door, the slight tilt of his head as I approach.
“Wine?” I ask again, lifting my glass.
“Water’s fine, thanks.”
I fill a glass from the filtered tap and slide it across the counter. “You’re on duty?”
“Always.” He takes a sip, then sets it down carefully. “Did you do the renovation on this place?”
“No. Stella was in first grade when I moved so I searched for something turnkey.” I stir the potatoes, adjust the heat.
“It was...a difficult time. The divorce, I mean. My lawyer thought I should stay in the marital home until everything was finalized, but I couldn’t.
And my friend Dorian—” I gesture vaguely, “—he thought this place was too exposed. Corner lot, too many windows. But I liked it. It felt like mine. And it had been gutted. Total redesign. You couldn’t get more turnkey. ”
Noah nods slowly, his expression neutral but his eyes attentive. “It’s a good house.”
“You’re just being polite.”
“No,” he says, and there’s a surprising firmness in his tone. “It’s a good house. Just...needs some adjustments. But we’ll handle that.”
The way he says we shouldn’t feel as reassuring as it does. It’s preferable to believe Dorian’s being absurd.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the counter. Stella’s location shows her moving—finally. Richard must have picked her up.
“She’ll be here in a few minutes,” I say, more to myself than to Noah. “My ex-husband drops her off. He’s particular about routines.”
“Understood.”
I pull the salmon from the oven and check the potatoes. The kitchen fills with the scent of herbs and lemon. It’s a small domestic ritual, but it grounds me—proof that despite everything, I can still create order, still provide.
“Do you cook?” I ask.
Noah’s mouth quirks. “I can manage. My mom made sure I wouldn’t starve when I left for basic training. Nothing fancy, but I won’t burn the house down.”
“That’s reassuring, given you’re living here.”
His laugh is low and genuine. It softens his face, makes him seem less like a security operative and more like...just a man. A man in my kitchen, drinking water while I cook dinner.
The front door opens, closes with a bang, followed by rapid footsteps.
“Mom? I’m home!”
Stella appears, backpack slung over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her dark hair—so much like mine—is pulled into a messy bun, and her school uniform is rumpled, skirt hitched up slightly from the car ride.
Then she sees Noah.
She stops mid-step, eyes widening. “Oh. Hi.”
“Stella, sweetheart, this is Noah Bennett. He’s part of the security team and is going to be staying with us for a couple of weeks.”
Noah steps forward, extending his hand with an easy confidence. “Nice to meet you, Stella.”
She shakes his hand, her expression torn between curiosity and caution. “Are you like...a bodyguard?”
“Something like that,” Noah says. “I’m helping your mom make sure everything’s running smoothly with her business.”
Stella’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Noah.
“Dad asked me why you have security people around now. He seemed kinda annoyed. And now there’s someone living here?” She drops her backpack. “Are you gonna tell him?”
I smooth my hands down my lounge set. “I’ll address his concerns when we speak. There’s nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart—”
“Mom.” Stella levels me with a look far too knowing for twelve. “You always say that.”
My throat tightens. She’s too smart. Too observant. I open my mouth to deflect, but Noah speaks first.
“You play basketball?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the carport where a hoop hangs against the back brick fence wall.
Stella blinks, caught off guard by the shift. “Yeah. I mean, not like on a team or anything. Just for fun.”
“What’s your range?” Noah asks, leaning one hip against the counter. “You a three-point shooter? Mid-range?”
A small smile tugs at Stella’s lips. “I’m working on my free throws. Dad says I shoot too flat.” Her father is the one who installed a basketball goal at the end of the carport—with my permission.
“Your dad might be onto something,” Noah says easily. “But flat’s better than too much arc. You can adjust flat. Too much arc, you’re fighting gravity the whole way.”
Stella’s smile widens. “You play?”
“Used to. Pickup games mostly, back in Chicago, where I grew up. Haven’t had much time lately, but I can still hold my own.”
“Maybe we could play sometime?”
“Anytime,” Noah says easily. “I’d love to.”
Stella glances at me, then back at Noah, her earlier tension easing. “Cool.”
I exhale slowly, relieved she let the questions drop. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you go wash up?”
“Okay.” She grabs her backpack, then pauses in the hall. “Noah?”
He turns. “Yeah?”
“Marvel or DC?”
“Marvel. Captain America.”
Stella grins. “Good answer.”
She disappears upstairs, her footsteps light and quick.
I turn back to the stove. “Thank you,” I say quietly. Talking to my daughter isn’t in his job description.
Noah shrugs, picking up his water glass. “She’s a good kid. Smart.”
“Too smart sometimes.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
I plate the salmon and arrange the potatoes. “She’ll ask more questions later. Especially if her father keeps playing it up.”
“Then we answer what we can,” Noah says simply. “Kids know when you’re lying. Better to give her the truth—just the version she can handle.”
I glance at him, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. “You sound like you’ve got some experience.”
“I have a younger sister. Maya. When she was a teen…” He trails off, a faint smile touching his lips. “Let’s just say I got good at managing questions I didn’t want to answer.”
“And how did that work out?”
“She still doesn’t trust me when I say everything’s fine.” His smile widens. “But she knows I’ll tell her when it matters.”
I set the plates on the island and call Stella back down. As we settle into dinner—awkward at first, then easier as Noah asks Stella about school, about her play rehearsals, about her friends—I realize something.
For the first time in weeks, I’m more relaxed. Less fearful.
And that grates almost as much as the threats Dorian insists exist.