4. Huck
HUCK
I’ve spent most of my life squeezing into spaces that weren’t built for someone like me.
Cramped Humvees. Narrow bunk beds. Tiny apartments with ceilings just low enough to make me hunch. The lives of women who needed me in pieces, not whole. Protect this. Don’t touch that. Keep your hands to yourself, your voice low, your needs nonexistent.
But this? Bailey’s mansion?
This is the first time I’ve walked into someone’s home and thought—yeah. I can breathe here.
Bailey’s place is a fortress. Stone walls.
Iron gates. Double-thick windows. The kind of estate you only see on real estate shows hosted by people with suspicious accents and questionable taste.
But it’s not gaudy. Not pretentious. It’s warm.
Clean. Full of life in that chaotic way that only happens when kids are actually living inside.
There are toys in the hallway, framed crayon drawings by the entry table, a half-unzipped backpack slumped like a drunk at the base of the stairs. It’s the kind of place a woman like Bailey builds when she’s working twice as hard as everyone else just to make sure her babies sleep easy.
It’s perfect.
Sean’s already mapping out camera angles and pinch points. Wes is grumbling about router speed and grid coverage. Me?
I’m soaking it in. All this room. All this space.
The ceilings are tall enough that I don’t have to duck when I stretch. The couches are big enough that I don’t look like a fucking gorilla sitting down. The stair railing doesn’t creak when I lean on it.
God, it feels good.
I drop my duffel in the guest suite I’ve been assigned and glance around. Wood floors. Oversized bed. French doors that open out to the back patio. Probably bigger than every place I’ve ever lived stacked together.
My actual apartment is a decent-sized loft with almost no walls and a wraparound balcony.
I like it a lot—I have plenty of space to stretch out.
But the ceilings are low enough that I can touch them without standing on my toes.
The windows are too small for me to use the fire escape, not that I’d trust the rusty fire escape to hold my weight. But at least my bed is big.
Not as big as this one, though.
I run a hand over my hair, the stiff rise of my faux-hawk catching at my palm. I should feel out of place here. Too much. Too rough. But I don’t.
Maybe it’s because this is Bailey’s. Maybe it’s because I’ve always known she was a little too much too. And I’ve never wanted less .
I head downstairs and find a pretty Latin woman in the kitchen. She has rich golden skin and a short black haircut, the kind I used to see soldiers wear on base. Jessica Rodriguez, according to the staff briefing.
She’s slicing apples with the kind of precision that tells me she’s been trained in more than childcare. She doesn’t flinch when I enter, just lifts her chin and says, “You eat like a bear or a wolf?”
“Bear,” I answer. “But less growling.”
She gives a satisfied nod and a short smile. “Good. I’m not the housekeeper. I’m the nanny. The kids are my job. You are not. Just so we’re clear.”
“Understood.” I like her already.
She motions to the fridge. “Help yourself. The kids are in the den. They know you’re staying, but they’re processing all of this upheaval, so tread lightly.”
“Will do.” I grab a bottle of water and make my way to the den, moving slow so I don’t accidentally knock a picture off the wall or scare anyone just by existing. Story of my life.
I find them on the couch. Maeve’s on one end, arms crossed, green eyes sharp. Eli’s curled on the other, one knee tucked under him, a hardcover book twice his size in his lap. Both freeze when they see me.
Maeve blinks up at me. “You’re huge.”
“Eh, yep,” I say.
Eli peeks over the top of his book. “Do you break chairs?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But only the ones that talk back.”
That gets a little snort from Maeve. She tries to hide it, but I catch the edge of her mouth twitch.
I sit on the arm of the farthest chair, keeping distance but staying visible. “You guys okay?”
Maeve shrugs. “Are you the bodyguard?”
“One of three.”
“Do you have guns?”
I nod. “Lots.”
Eli’s eyes go wide. “Do you like them?”
“I like protecting people. Guns make it easier sometimes. But the best way to protect people is with your brain.”
He seems to chew on that.
Maeve narrows her eyes. “My mom says you were her friend a long time ago.”
“I was.”
“What happened?”
I meet her gaze, serious. “Life. We went different ways. But I never stopped caring.”
She stares for a beat too long, like she’s trying to read my soul. Then she nods and pulls her braid over one shoulder. “Okay.”
That’s it. Just okay. But it feels like a win in some weird way. Kids are complicated.
I glance at Eli. “What’re you reading?”
He flips the cover to show me. The Way of Kings. Kid’s got taste. And apparently an excellent vocabulary. The book is pretty grown-up for an eight-year-old.
“Epic stuff,” I say.
“I like space too,” he says quietly. “Like stars. The ones with stories.”
I smile. “Yeah. Me too.”
He looks up, and I see the same soft blue eyes as his mother.
Maeve hops up, pulling him by the arm. “We’re going outside.”
He scrambles after her, nearly tripping over his book. They disappear through the patio doors, and I watch them for a moment—two little blurs of motion under the California sun.
Jessica appears beside me with a smirk. “Not bad for a bear.”
I grunt. “I like kids. They don’t always like me. But I figured I should work on it, considering everything.”
She pats my arm. “That’s all anyone can do.”
I drift back upstairs and take the long way to the patio, following the sound of laughter. It’s light and loose, the kind that only happens when kids feel safe. When mothers make them feel that way.
The backyard is bigger than most parks. There’s a long rectangular pool in the center, flanked by palm trees and white lounge chairs that look expensive enough that I should be afraid to sit on them. A stone path winds toward a garden, and the back of the mansion is all glass and warm light.
Bailey’s in the pool with Maeve and Eli. She’s laughing—head back, hair slicked, water catching in the hollow of her throat like it was made for her. She’s thrown off the robe and sunglasses and celebrity armor, and for the first time since she walked into our office, she looks…free.
Maeve cannonballs near her and sends up a huge splash. Bailey gasps and shrieks in mock horror, then chases her through the shallow end. Eli climbs onto a foam float and pretends to be the “lifeguard overlord,” ordering them all to obey his aquatic rule.
I lean against one of the patio pillars and just watch. My heart doesn’t beat the way it usually does when I’m on assignment. It aches.
She’s a good mom. A really good mom. Even with a thousand things on her shoulders, even after everything she’s survived, she’s here, smiling, keeping her babies laughing, floating above the weight that should’ve sunk her.
She looks so good.
The curves I remember are fuller now. Hips, thighs, the little softness at her belly. Her swimsuit is modest—dark blue one-piece, high-cut—but it hugs every inch like it was poured on. And when she throws her head back and laughs at something Maeve says, I can see the dimple in her cheek.
The one I used to dream about kissing.
She’s so damn sweet, I’ve got a toothache. MILFs have always been a weakness of mine, and seeing Bailey this way is killing me. Why did it have to be her? Why did she have to walk into our office, asking us for help? It feels like the worst temptation in the best way.
I shift my weight, suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. Everything in me wants to walk into that pool, scoop her up, and whisper that she’s safe now. That nothing— nothing —will touch her or those kids again. That she doesn’t have to carry it alone anymore.
But I stay where I am. Because that’s what she needs right now—space. Presence without pressure.
Still, I think about that night on the roof when we were seventeen. How she fell asleep with her head on my chest, and I didn’t move for hours. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. How I stared at the stars, wishing for something I didn’t have words for yet.
Maybe we weren’t the stars in the sky. Maybe we were just the ones who held hers in place. And maybe that’s still all I want.
I don’t hear her coming.
One second I’m staring into the blue where she’s swimming with her kids, and the next she’s there barefoot on the stone patio, towel loose over her shoulders, drops of water tracing a path down her legs.
I don’t breathe.
She’s still damp from the pool, and her suit clings like a second skin—navy and sleek, molded to every curve I remember and a few I definitely didn’t deserve to forget.
Her hair’s wet, curls dripping onto her collarbone, water sliding over the rise of her chest before disappearing into the deep V of the fabric.
I blink like an idiot.
“Hey,” she says, voice casual—but a little breathless. “You any good at pool volleyball?”
I open my mouth to answer, but she leans in to wrap the towel tighter around her waist—and a single drop of water slips off her elbow and lands on my forearm.
It sizzles. Not in reality. Not physically. But I feel it all the way down.
I raise an eyebrow. “You got me wet.”
She tilts her head, eyes dancing. “Isn’t that my line?”
And then her eyes go wide.
I see it happen in real time—her own words hitting her, her face flushing, her hand flying up to her mouth. She turns bright red, that kind of high, fast blush that hits her chest and cheeks all at once.
“Oh my God,” she mutters. “I didn’t mean—sorry, I just?—”
“I’m not complaining.”
She stares at me. Then laughs , nervous and flustered, clutching the towel like it might erase the last ten seconds of her life.
“I—okay, I’m gonna go shower. Forget I said that.
” She turns so fast her wet hair slaps her shoulder, and she nearly slips on the stone before catching herself and darting inside.
I watch her go, heart pounding like I just got dropped out of a helicopter without a parachute.
Game on.