Chapter 2 - Wes
I thought a workout would purge her from my mind.
The obstacle course normally puts everything in perspective.
Not even the barbed wire I’m crawling under can pop the memory of her soft hazel eyes staring up at me with awe rather than respect and slight intimidation.
I heard someone call her name as I left; Hailey.
I recognized her immediately.
Those hazel eyes are the same ones I remember from years ago, belonging to the quiet girl who used to hover on the edges and then, one day, simply stopped showing up. Colonel Carter’s daughter.
But this Hailey isn’t a child.
She’s grown into something else entirely—and that’s what unsettles me.
She’s a young woman now. Not the quiet presence I half-remember, not a shadow at the edge of a room. There’s warmth in her that feels deliberate, lived-in. She doesn’t reach for attention, yet it finds her anyway. People respond to her without realizing why.
Hailey stands out here because she doesn’t fit the lines we live by. She moves softer, breathes easier, loose and unguarded where everyone else is pressed into shape and held there by habit.
I try to force her out of my head the only way I know how.
I finish the obstacle course. I take a cold shower until my skin burns and my thoughts quiet. Then it’s back to duty—paperwork, schedules, logistics. The event later today needs final approval. There is more than enough to occupy me.
And yet she stays.
I don’t understand why she’s lodged herself so firmly in my thoughts. I’m not someone who catalogs faces or holds onto small details. I don’t replay moments. I don’t wonder.
So why do I remember the way she looked at me? The stillness in her expression. The openness in her eyes.
Even if I can’t pin down exactly which wire in my head she’s pulled—or why my body reacts to her like it does—I know one thing for certain.
She isn’t a threat.
At least, not in any way I’m trained to respond to.
Which means this isn’t a problem. Just a distraction. Something unfamiliar brushing up against routine. All I need is time. A few brief, ordinary interactions to dull the edge of her novelty. To let whatever spark flared settle back into nothing, the way these things always do.
That’s the logic, anyway.
I push through the rest of my duties, change into my fatigues, the T-shirt beneath pressed and regulation-perfect. By the time I head to the Ridgehouse for the Veteran Appreciation event, my expression is steady again. Controlled.
Inside, I shake hands with the men who are already there—veterans who carry history in their posture, who deserve patience, respect, and grace. I guide them toward the volunteers, who greet them warmly, and for a moment the rhythm feels familiar. Grounding.
Then Michael Trent approaches. President of Legion Post 317. Retired chaplain. Perceptive enough to see past ranks and excuses.
He stops in front of me, arches a brow, and looks at me like he already knows I’m not here just to be helpful.
And that’s when I realize I may not be either.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the familiar crinkle at the corners of his eyes deepening. “You usually keep your distance from these events. And before you say it—no, it’s not mandatory, Weston.”
I meet his gaze briefly. “I know.”
That seems to satisfy him less than it should. He studies me for a moment longer, then gestures toward the bar, where the room has begun to fill with easy laughter and low conversation.
My eyes follow the motion before I can stop them.
Hailey is behind the counter, smiling at one of the veterans, nodding as she listens while pouring his drink. She says something that makes him laugh, then gives his hand a soft, reassuring pat before moving on to the next person.
Simple. Kind. Nothing about it meant for me.
I tell myself to move on.
Yet my attention drifts back to her anyway—another unfamiliar instinct surfacing where discipline should be. She isn’t in danger. She isn’t inviting anything. She’s just doing her job.
And still, I notice.
“If you’re planning on socializing tonight,” Michael says mildly, watching me too closely, “we should at least make it official. Have a drink.”
I incline my head once.
We walk over together, and Michael’s expression eases the moment he sees Hailey. His smile is warm, familiar.
“There you are,” he says kindly. “I didn’t know you were scheduled tonight.”
She relaxes instantly, her shoulders lowering as she smiles back. “I wasn’t, exactly. But I wanted to help.”
In this light, her eyes catch me off guard—the way brown and gold blend together, alive and expressive.
My gaze drops before I can stop it. Her shirt is softer than regulation attire, dressier too, flaring gently beneath her breasts, outlining her figure in a way that feels unintentionally intimate.
I force my eyes back to her face just as she looks at me.
She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, a nervous habit I recognize immediately, and clears her throat. A shy smile curves her lips as she looks up at me from beneath her lashes, her cheeks faintly flushed.
“My dad thought it might help,” she says lightly. “Being here. Settling in. Figuring things out.”
Michael nods, thoughtful, not pressing. “Sometimes that’s all it takes. Being around the right people.”
Her gaze flickers to me for the briefest moment before she turns professional again, straightening slightly.
“What can I get you, Captain?”
The title lands between us, careful and deliberate.
“A beer, please,” I say evenly, holding her eyes for a second longer than necessary—long enough to register the quiet strength there. Soft, but steady. Warm, but resiliant.
She turns to pour, and I’m left with the unsettling realization that gentleness doesn’t make her fragile. It makes her powerful.
Enchanting.
The thought is accurate, but again, it must be because I haven’t been around civilians in a while. It’s like not having chocolate in years, taking one bite, and deciding the taste is moan worthy. After four full-sized candy bars, it becomes a nightmare.
That’s what it has to be.
It’s the only sane option, but it still feels … wrong. Like that description falls short of the way my entire body wants to soften when she smiles at me.
She nods once. “Of course. That’s the favorite tonight. I was hoping that some of the special cocktails we worked on would be appreciated, but …” She shrugs. “I should have listened to Ryan.”
“Ooh, I’m a sucker for a rum runner,” Michael hums.
As she talks about the ingredients, she lights up.
She somehow gets Michael talking about he’d like more events at the Ridgehouse to encourage everyone to come together more often.
Hailey’s smile is so genuine and real as she talks about her ideas that I’m spell bound, hanging on her excitement as if I can make it my own.
Something about the way she happily dives into conversations, gives each person attention as she moves down the line and encourages them to share is unique. I don’t think I’ve seen half of these old men as willing to share as they are now.
Hailey doesn’t back down from stories about war, but somehow she manages to guide each one somewhere lighter—finding a human angle, a moment of humor, a memory that leaves the men smiling when she moves on.
When she comes back to us, Michael is already deep in conversation with a younger woman about opportunities at the Post.
“Do you need another beer?” Hailey asks.
I lift my half-finished glass. “I’m fine.”
She studies me for a beat, openly now, not pretending to tidy the bar or keep herself busy.
“I remember you… a little,” she says. “It’s hazy. You probably don’t remember me the same way. I’ve changed. Grown up.”
“You have,” I say, then add quietly, “Hailey Carter.”
Her eyes widen just a fraction before a soft smile curves her mouth. “So you do remember.”
“I do,” I admit. I had already placed her earlier—her name, her father, the familiar weight that came with it. Seeing her now only sharpened that recognition. “Hard to forget.”
Her blush returns, warmer this time, the teasing edge of her smile lingering as she leans slightly over the counter.
Of course it would be her.
Not a stranger. Not a coincidence. Colonel Carter’s daughter—spoken aloud only minutes ago, already present in my thoughts, already a boundary I shouldn’t even be standing this close to.
Off-limits, no matter the color rising in her cheeks, the quiet confidence in her gaze, or the way her nearness tightens something low in my stomach and stirs instincts I’d buried long ago.
Some lines are drawn for a reason.
I just wish my body wasn’t already testing how close I could stand to one without crossing it.