Chapter Thirty-Four
Maggie should have felt better after a warm meal and a hot shower, but if anything, she was colder now. She’d pulled on her
thickest socks and softest pants and her second-favorite long-sleeve tee ( just drew it! with a picture of Nancy holding a magnifying glass like a basketball high over her head).
But she couldn’t get warm. And she couldn’t get comfortable. And she couldn’t stop thinking about everything long enough to
think about anything, so she just lay on the giant bed, looking at her heavy door and its frankly inadequate lock.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard a sharp sound on the wind; she saw the rustling hedges and felt the wet globs of
falling snow. But, most of all, she remembered the way strong arms had grabbed her and tugged her through the hedges, the
body that had pressed her down, shielding her. Protecting her.
I’m the guy who takes the bullet.
It was the first thing Ethan had ever told her that she’d one hundred percent believed. Then Maggie looked at the lock again,
wishing she could make it stronger for whole new reasons.
The door opened in and there was an antique dresser beside it, so maybe it wouldn’t be the silliest thing in the world to
sort of... shift the dresser? Just a little?
She was being silly.
She was being foolish.
She was letting her imagination get the better of her, but her imagination had also paid the bills for the better part of
a decade, so her imagination, frankly, deserved the benefit of the doubt. Or so Maggie told herself as she climbed off the
too-tall bed and rushed across the cold floor and lifted. But the dresser didn’t move. She went to the end and tried again,
managing to swing it away from the wall just a little. Then a little more. And a little—
When the knock came, Maggie might have jumped. And screeched. It wasn’t her proudest moment, in other words, as she inched
toward the door and asked, “Who is it?”
There was a low chuckle on the other side. “Who do you think?” And Maggie didn’t know if that was better or worse than the
shooter.
“Are you here to kill me?”
She heard that quick, low laugh again. “Maybe. If you don’t open the door.”
She had to think about it for a moment, because right then she wasn’t sure what was more dangerous—the killer she had to keep
out or the man she didn’t want to let in.
“Come on, Margaret Ann. Let me in.” The dark wood was no match for Ethan’s deep voice. “Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
I can do this all night, you know. I’ve been complimented on my stamina many, many—”
He stumbled when she threw open the door, catching himself with the grace of a natural athlete, elbow on the doorjamb, smirk
on his face. “I knew you liked me,” he said, then looked her up and down—from her wet hair to her fuzzy socks—and gave a little
growl. “ Sexy. ”
And Maggie wanted to kill him for all new reasons. She might have done exactly that if he hadn’t started tossing things from
the hall to the floor by her bed. Blankets and pillows and—
“Hey!” she snapped, but he was already dragging something heavy through the doorway. “What is that?”
It landed on the floor with a thump .
“My mattress.”
For a moment, she just stood there, staring down. “I can see that. But why is it in my room?”
“Because I’m sleeping in here.” Ethan started fanning out a bedsheet.
“Why?”
“Because even though I’m a sucker for an only-one-bed romance, I don’t know if it counts if there’s a second bed on the other
side of the wall.”
“But I like your bed being on that side of the wall. I like it even better when you’re in that bed. And— Wait. You read romance?”
“Sweetheart”—Ethan lowered his voice and his eyes—“I absolutely read romance.”
There was something about him in that moment. Boyish and charming and—
“Are you wearing glasses?”
That was it. It was too much. Really. It was. Dark frames rimmed eyes that were the color of sapphires, and somehow it made
him look younger and less perfect. Nerdier, but in a way that was... more . More personality. More charm. More vulnerability. Which didn’t make sense at all.
Ethan Wyatt was a persona. A mirage. A character born out of focus groups and case studies and every marketing department’s
wet dream. But the guy in front of her... he was different.
It was like a reverse Clark Kent. He’d put on his glasses and revealed his superpower, and Maggie couldn’t help but like him
just a little. Which, sadly, made her hate herself quite a lot.
But then he turned and she realized that his pajama bottoms had Thief in the Knight printed across the butt.
“Please tell me you’re not wearing Ethan Wyatt swag?”
“Margaret!” He sounded scandalized. “Are you looking at my buttocks?”
“Your buttocks have the title of your third novel printed on them.”
“Margaret! Are you trying to undress me?”
“No!”
“Because ordinarily I sleep in the nude, but given the circumstances—”
“Branded buttocks are fine!”
“I mean I’d rather not be totally naked if I’m called upon to protect you. Again.”
“I don’t need your protection,” she shot back and waited for his reply, but that smug smile slid across his smug face again
and he cut his gaze toward the heavy dresser that had obviously been dragged away from the wall.
“That’s always been there,” she said a little too quickly, and thankfully, Ethan didn’t say a word. He just went to the dresser
and lifted it as if it weighed nothing before settling it in front of the door.
Maggie felt her cheeks go red. She couldn’t face him, but she managed a sheepish “Thank you.”
He probably wanted to brag about how strong he was or show off his biceps, but he didn’t tease or gloat, and Maggie felt the
whole room shift. He wasn’t joking at all when he said, “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“I know.” The loose thread on the cuff of her T-shirt was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “The hat thing
was a fluke. I don’t really think anyone would be after me. I mean, I’m nothing. I’m no one. I’m—”
“You’re not no one. And I’m telling you I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Not tonight.” He took a slow step closer.
“Not tomorrow.” Another step—another heartbeat, way too hard inside her chest. “Not ever.”
She tried to tease. “Because you’re the guy who takes the bullet?”
He didn’t even grin. “Exactly.”
Maggie felt hot all of a sudden. Awkward and clumsy and like maybe if the dresser wasn’t in front of the door she’d run right
out of that room. Of the mansion. She’d run into the night and not stop running until she hit water. So she did the next best
thing and stepped toward the bathroom.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Boy-Scout-Assassin-Spy—”
“Secret Service.”
She stopped at the bathroom door and turned, expecting to get the smirk again, that teasing grin and boyish charm, but the
man in the glasses was the most serious version of Ethan Wyatt that she had ever seen.
“I was in the Secret Service,” he said again.
In the years since Ethan burst onto the scene, Maggie had probably heard a hundred theories—about who he was and where he’d
come from, but she’d never heard a whisper about the Secret Service. For a moment, she assumed he must be lying—teasing. Ethan-ing. But there was something on his face then. He was serious. It was true.
She remembered the scene on the plane, the scar on his back. She wanted to ask a million questions, but she was frozen in
the headlights of a gaze that was too hot and too strong—like a beam in a sci-fi movie, it was going to suck her in.
But she must have been the only one to feel it because he looked at the pile on her bed.
“Wait. Are those...”
“Nothing,” Maggie blurted, darting around him as if she could block his view, but Ethan had gone all Ethan-y again and he
just picked her up and set her aside.
“ Margaret Elizabeth Chase ,” he said slowly, drawing out the words, but that just reminded her of how he’d gotten her name right in the gun room—of
how he’d known it all along. Of how he’d said she was the best. “Did you steal Eleanor’s new book?” He plucked a notebook
from the top of the pile.
“No,” she blurted. He gave her a look that said oh really? “Okay. Yes. Maybe? I borrowed them. I couldn’t help it! It’s book number one hundred! I had to.”
Did she sound like a whiny child? Yes. Did she care? Not even a little bit.
“Inspector Dobson clearly told us not to go into the office. It’s an active crime scene.”
“Well, Inspector Dobson also told Kitty that he’d always wanted a sweater with a drummer drumming on it, so Inspector Dobson
lies is what I’m saying.”
“So you snuck in? Without me? I am wounded.” He thumbed through one of the notebooks, way too fast to read. “How is it?”
Maggie’s legs gave out and she dropped onto the bed. “I don’t know. It’s... different. And I can’t really put my finger
on why.”
“Well, it’s a first draft,” he told her.
“Yeah. And there are only seven notebooks, so it’s not finished.”
“But that’s not what’s bothering you.”
Oh, she hated it—how well this man could read her.
“No, it’s...” She knew in her heart she shouldn’t tell him. And then she told him anyway. “I just keep thinking... what
if it’s the last Eleanor Ashley I ever read for the first time?” She toyed with the loose thread again. Even the words hurt.
“What if it’s the last Eleanor Ashley?”
Maggie didn’t cry, but when the bed dipped and an arm fell around her shoulders she actually savored the weight. And when
he tugged her closer, she didn’t fight.
Gravity and Ethan Wyatt: two incontrovertible forces of nature were conspiring against her and Maggie was just too tired to
struggle.
She felt warm breath against her temple. A brush of lips in the tiny wisps of her hair. “Hey. We’re going to find Eleanor.
I promise. Okay?”
It was all she could do to nod and stammer out, “Okay.”
When he clicked off the light, her eyelids grew heavy and the night grew still and yet she didn’t even dream of sleeping.
Maybe it was the silence or the stress or the jet lag—or maybe it had simply been too long since she had felt another heartbeat,
keeping time beside her in the dark, but Maggie heard herself say, “When I was a kid, we didn’t have a lot of money. Camps
and sports were out of the question. Even birthday parties, because you have to take a gift and then, eventually, you have
to host the party, and besides, my parents were at work, so... Summers were the worst. Or the best?” She honestly didn’t
know. “Because I had two things: a library card and time. And then I guess I had three things because I also had her. I’ve
always had Eleanor.”
Maggie’s head had ended up on his shoulder somehow, and she tried to pull it back, but he just held her tighter. Like it was
instinct. Like it was natural. Like he was—she felt the rise and fall of his chest— asleep ? Maggie was trying to decide whether she should feel disappointed or relieved when she heard—
“My dad was in the army.”
Instantly, Maggie wanted to bolt upright and ask a dozen questions, but there was a tension in his muscles, a tightness in
his breath. It was like the words were painful. Like even the guy who takes the bullet was only brave enough to say them in
the dark.
“So we moved. A lot. He was... ambitious. No.” Ethan’s chest rose and fell too quickly—the silent laugh you give when nothing
is funny anymore. “If ambition is hunger, then my father was starving. Unfortunately, ambition meant promotions and promotions
meant moving and... I went to ten schools in twelve years is what I’m saying. So I didn’t go to birthday parties either.”
It was the nicest thing he could have told her, and even though Maggie never would have used the words warm or cozy to describe the man beside her, she somehow found herself nestling in, eyelids getting heavy. When he settled a blanket over
her, she knew she should tell him to get off her bed. To go back to his room. To leave her alone. But she felt warm and contented
and... safe.
Maggie felt safe for the first time in years, and a part of her wanted to pick apart that feeling, peel back the pieces and
lay it bare. But another—stronger—part of her just wanted it to last a little while longer.
“Maggie...” The voice was lower now. Like he’d been fighting a war within himself. Like he was losing. “About what you
heard... in New York...”
And just like that the spell was broken.
“Don’t.” She didn’t want to have this fight, but the fight had come looking for her and she was already up and scooting to
the other side of the bed.
“Please. I want to explain.”
“Not tonight, Ethan. I’m too tired to hear about how I misunderstood or how you didn’t mean it or—”
“I did mean it. I meant every word.”
Maggie’s blood turned to ice and then she said, “Get out.”
“He was always going to leave you, Maggie.”
“I said get out.”
She was almost out of the bed when the whole blanket started to move, dragging her backward with it like a conveyor belt.
“Maggie, stop. Please. Listen. He was always going to leave you because you changed the rules.”
She felt the words like a slap she should have seen coming. “Yeah. Of course it was my fault.” Everything was always her fault.
“You were never supposed to outshine him!” Ethan blurted and Maggie froze. Even her heart stopped beating as his eyes went
soft and his voice dropped. “You were never supposed to do more than he did. You weren’t supposed to be more. You sure as hell weren’t supposed to earn more. I know men like that. I come from a long line of men exactly like that, so believe me when I say he needed you to be
less than him, and you were always going to be more.”
He raised a hand like he didn’t know what to do with it. It shook in the chilly air, and when she felt a warm finger brush
across her cheek to wipe away a tear it almost broke her.
“There’s no way, no universe, no reality in which you aren’t the brightest star in the whole damn sky, and...” His cheeks
flushed. His hand shook, and he looked away like, suddenly, he was the one who was embarrassed. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
He was already halfway off the bed when Maggie caught his wrist. She felt it tremble, but for a moment they just sat in the
glow of stars-on-snow, feeling his pulse pound beneath her fingers.
“Stay where you are.”
He was biting back a grin as she crawled beneath the covers and lifted one corner, waiting for him to join her.
“Stop smirking,” she warned him.
“I’m not smirking.”
“You’re just warm.”
“I’m hot,” he said with his cockiest grin. “Say it. I’m hot. ” The voice was low and close and... teasing. “Hey, wanna make out?”
And Maggie—sleepy Maggie—tried her hardest not to grin. “No, thank you.”
“Okay. If you change your mind, let me know.”
“Okay.”
But as Maggie turned on her side and closed her eyes, she hated how much she was smiling.