Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Noah
Focus, Bennett.
The punctuality—admirable for a CEO. Dangerous for someone with a target on her back. Routine makes you predictable, and predictable makes you vulnerable.
The plan’s simple: follow her to the office where Gabe’s on duty. I’ve got a nine a.m. call with Hudson, then a run while the morning’s still sharp. I need the run. Need to work off the restless energy that’s been building since Sunday night. Since Alicia.
Her Rivian glides from the driveway. I let two cars pass before easing into traffic. As I roll by her corner lot, I glance at the house. With the blinds up, it’s a fishbowl—clean lines, big windows, nowhere to hide.
I know which room is hers now. Know the view from her bedroom window, the softness of her sheets, the way afternoon light filters through those curtains. Know things I shouldn’t know about a client. Except she’s not exactly just a client anymore, is she?
The fishbowl layout bothers me more now. Makes observation too easy. Maybe that doesn’t concern her. When working from home, she spends most of her time on the second floor. Still, it makes me uneasy in ways that have nothing to do with the job.
We’ve had no credible threats. She’s agreed to appear before a Senate subcommittee in a closed-door session—untelevised, more about managing political fallout than pursuing justice.
If she’s called by prosecution into the case against the man who extorted the senator, that’ll be public.
If there’s a televised congressional hearing regarding the deceased chief of staff, that’ll be a bigger deal.
My take? Visibility keeps her safe. The guilty prefer shadows, not spotlights. These aren’t mobsters; they’re polished power brokers with donors and photo ops to protect. They’ll bury evidence long before they risk a hit that invites the FBI to dinner.
At least, that’s what my gut says—though my gut didn’t see the White House Chief of Staff moonlighting as an intel broker either.
Alicia drops Stella at school, right on schedule—7:25—and turns toward her office. Clockwork.
At 7:40 she pulls into the parking lot at Morgan I return it and drive a block up before looping back toward her house.
I want to be on a secure line for the call.
That’s when a flash of blonde catches my eye outside the corner coffee shop—Novel Grounds.
Jessica.
I slide into a spot across the street. Pharmaceutical sales reps meet clients everywhere, but the coincidence prickles.
Through the windshield, I watch her exit the shop with two coffees. She moves with purpose, heading to a sedan parked four spaces down. The driver lowers his window. She leans in, speaking low. No smile. No small talk.
I lift my phone and zoom. Not Richard. The man’s younger—mid-thirties, light brown hair, average build. I snap two photos. Jessica gestures once, quick, precise. Then she straightens and looks across the street.
I freeze, turning my head just enough that she gets a side view, not a face. With the glare on the glass, she probably can’t make out detail. This block’s busy enough that a parked car shouldn’t raise suspicion.
Jessica walks off. A block over, a Rivian that’s identical to Alicia’s, only a different color, flashes as she unlocks it. That’s her destination. I send the photos to Gabe.
The sedan makes a U-turn, heading the opposite direction. I capture a shot of Jessica’s license plate and send that too.
My phone rings seconds later.
“What’ve we got?” Gabe asks.
“Probably nothing,” I say. “Richard Whitmore’s girlfriend brought coffee to a guy in a sedan—mid-thirties, average build. Thirty-second chat, then gone.”
“Copy. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Good. You keeping a low profile?”
“If anyone’s watching, they’ll know we’re here,” he says. “That’s the point.”
He’s right. Sometimes the visible guard deters more than the hidden one.
“Roger that. You joining the nine o’clock?”
“Negative. Alicia’s got a nine-thirty. Wouldn’t let me follow her, so driving her was the compromise.”
“She still resisting?”
“She’s not a fan.”
I smile as I end the call. A woman like Alicia Morgan doesn’t admit weakness. She draws lines everywhere she can—no follow cars, no sitting in on meetings—then quietly moves the line when something rattles her. That open liftgate rattled her more than she’ll say.
Back at the house, I log into the secure portal. Hudson’s face fills one square, Jake another, Quinn’s bright eyes and glasses a third.
“Aren’t you two in the same place?” I ask.
“We are,” Quinn says. “But this is faster.”
Hudson nods. “Quick update. No movement on the Delacroix investigation. Our source says his wife’s now listed as a person of interest.”
Jake whistles. “Bet that happened five minutes after they called it a homicide.”
“She wasn’t at the event, right?” I ask.
“No,” Quinn says. “Rock-solid alibi—league tennis match that morning. But that doesn’t rule out a hire.”
“Wouldn’t be the first,” Hudson mutters. “Jake?”
Jake leans back, casual as ever. “Been making the rounds—coffee shops, DC watering holes. Talked to a reporter from The Hill. Says the congressional inquiry’s yesterday’s news. Focus has shifted to Argentina’s bailout and that public-land housing bill.”
“That makes no sense,” Quinn says. “Urban areas need housing, not national forests.”
Jake grins. “Since when has logic led the charge?”
They keep talking politics, but my mind drifts back to Jessica—her quick glance across the street, the man’s neutral face. Something about it itches.
And if I’m being honest, my mind also drifts to the way Alicia’s fingers traced my collarbone Sunday night. The sound she made when I—
“Noah? You still with us?”
Hudson’s voice snaps me back. Jake’s grinning like he knows exactly where my head went.
“Yeah. Sorry. Thought I heard something.”
“All clear on your end?” Hudson asks.
“All clear.” Mostly. If you don’t count the fact that I can’t stop thinking about my principal in ways that would get me fired off any other detail.
“Good. Regroup next week.”
Quinn wraps with financial accounts tied to Magpie’s network, then we disconnect.
I don’t mention Jessica’s coffee run. Gabe has the images. If he sees her or the sedan near Alicia’s office again, we’ll revisit.
The rest of the day slides into rhythm. Seven-mile run—harder than usual, pushing until my lungs burn and my thoughts finally quiet. Kickboxing at the gym, where I can hit something and pretend I’m not thinking about the curve of Alicia’s hip or the way she said my name.
It doesn’t work. By the time I’m showering off, I’ve replayed Sunday night three times. The way she looked up at me. The way she tasted. The moment she transformed back into the crisis manager, walls snapping into place like she could compartmentalize anything—including me.
We haven’t talked about it. Haven’t acknowledged it beyond careful distance yesterday when Stella was home. And I don’t know what the hell happens next.
Late lunch with Jake and Daisy helps. Jake talks about sofas—apparently there’s a war over what’s best—and it’s normal enough that I almost convince myself I can handle this.
Back at the house, I review camera angles and add one more unit under the ivy for a clean line on the brick fence that rings the property.
My phone buzzes.
The Queen in transit to the castle.
Gabe’s code for Alicia heading home.
I check the time—early. She had meetings until five, Stella’s rehearsal until eight.
My pulse spikes before my brain registers why. Stella’s still gone. We’re alone. And Alicia’s coming home early.
Could mean nothing. Could mean she wants to work from home.
Or—I tell myself not to read into it, but my body’s already responding to the possibility.
From the basement feed, I watch the gate swing open, the Rivian glide in.
The front door closes. Heels click across hardwood—each step sharp, deliberate.
Instead of heading up to her office like she usually does, the sound grows louder.
Heading down. Toward me. Every nerve ending goes on alert—and not the professional kind.
I step into the hall as she appears at the bottom of the stairs.
“Light day at the office?”
“Client canceled.” Her eyes find mine—that stunning blue, completely unreadable. “I’ve been thinking about something.”
I wait, pulse edging up despite myself. We’re alone. She’s here. It’s highly unlikely she’s about to say what I’m hoping.
“About what happened between us.”
There it is.
I brace for the regret speech—the one where she explains this was a mistake, we crossed a line, it can’t happen again. I’ve heard versions of it before, though never from someone I wanted this much.
Except—
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she says quietly.
The words hit like a gut punch in the best possible way.
She places her handbag down, and there’s something deliberate in the movement. Something that makes my mouth go dry.
“I went to the store. Stella’s practice runs late tonight.”
It takes me a beat too long to process. She bought condoms. She came home early. She’s telling me—
“If you don’t want—”
“I want.” I close the distance between us in two strides, my hand finding her waist. “I’ve been thinking about you since Sunday. Been trying like hell to focus on anything else.”
“And?”
“Failing.” I pull her closer, feeling her heartbeat against my chest. “Completely failing.”