Chapter 15 #3
"You're going to physically block him?"
"I'm going to stand where standing is useful."
"That's a very diplomatic way of saying you're going to body-check a groom at his own wedding."
"I played center for twelve years. Positioning is what I do."
I bite the inside of my cheek. "What about the other groomsmen?"
"Thompson is harmless. Tipsy by three-thirty, guaranteed. The others are finance guys—soft hands, slow reflexes. They'll be too shocked to move."
"You're sure?"
"I've played against enforcers who wanted to rearrange my face. Blake's fraternity brothers don't worry me."
I scribble notes. Timelines. Names. Positions. Then I stop.
"Natalie's exit."
West uncrosses his arms. "Her father walks her out."
"How do you know—"
"Because that's how it works in their world. He walked her in. He walks her out. It's symmetry. It's optics. It tells the cameras the Ashfords are unified."
He says it like it's obvious. Because to him, it is. He's fluent in this—the choreography of reputation, the grammar of public image. He knows how it bends because he grew up inside it.
I didn't.
But I'm learning.
"Where does she go after?" I ask.
"The bridal suite. Private. Bridesmaids with her. No press access, no guests, no Blake."
"Security?"
"The resort has private detail. Natalie's father will have arranged additional. The Ashfords don't leave things to chance."
"Do we need to coordinate with them?"
"I'll handle that. A conversation with the head of security before the ceremony. Nothing specific—just a general advisory that the ceremony may not proceed as planned and that the bride's safety is the priority."
I stare at him. "You're annoyingly good at this."
His mouth does that thing. That barely-there curve that isn't a smile but makes my stomach flip anyway.
"What about contingencies?" I push. "What if Blake finds out beforehand?"
"He won't. He's too arrogant to suspect anything."
"But if—"
"Then Natalie pulls me aside and we pivot. Private confrontation. Evidence delivered to the families. Less dramatic, but equally effective."
"What if the audio doesn't play?"
"Natalie reads a statement instead. We have printed transcripts in the evidence packet. She holds up the page and reads his own words."
"What if it gets physical? Not Blake—what if someone else—"
"Jane." He leans forward. Forearms on the table, close enough that I can smell his soap and something underneath it that's just him—warm skin and salt and the faint tang of sweat from this afternoon.
"I played professional hockey for twelve years. I've taken hits from men who outweigh me by thirty pounds. I've dropped gloves with enforcers who wanted to end my season. I've protected teammates, goalies, and a sixty-year-old coach who wandered onto the ice during a line brawl."
He holds my gaze.
"Nobody is getting to Natalie. Nobody is getting to you. Not tomorrow. Not while I'm standing."
He said it with the same quiet certainty he uses when he says I've got you in the dark.
"Okay," I say. My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
We look at each other in the dying afternoon light, and the question I didn't ask earlier pulses once under my ribs.
Do I fit in this?
I shove it down. Pick up my pen.
"Okay, here’s the timeline. Final version." I show him the notes.
West reads it. Nods once. "Clean."
"We work very well together," I say and immediately wish I hadn't.
Because it's true—we're perfect together, in bed and out of it, in chaos and in control. And after tomorrow, that perfection expires.
His eyes find mine. Hold.
Long enough to make me wonder how long this lasts.
He reaches across the table. Takes my hand. Folds his fingers through mine and squeezes once—steady, certain, the grip of a man who knows how to hold on.
The sun is going down—the deck has shifted from gold to amber, and the notes between us are just paper now, and the plan is solid, and the juice is warm, and tomorrow we blow up a wedding, and tomorrow is the last day of the deal, and his thumb is tracing circles on my knuckle like he can't stop touching me even when we're strategizing.
"You didn't have to turn down that money," he says.
"Are we back on that?"
"I'm just saying."
"I don't charge people to be decent, West. It's a free service. Like the cooking."
He tilts his head and watches me. Reminds me of a golden retriever in commercials. It makes me feel seen in a way that’s wonderful but also too much for a Friday evening on a borrowed balcony.
"You're something else," he says.
I squeeze his hand. "So are you."
He pulls me up from my chair. I go easily—around the table, into his arms, chin tipped up to meet his gaze. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness that contradicts everything about his size.
"Tomorrow's going to be a mess," I say.
"Probably."
"But a controlled mess."
"The best kind."
"And after that—"
"After that," he says, "is after that."
Not a promise. Not a deflection. Something in between. Something that says I'm here right now and that's all I can guarantee.
I press my forehead to his chest. Feel his heartbeat against my temple. Steady. Reliable. The kind of rhythm you could set a clock to, or a life.
"We should eat," I say. "Real food. Before tomorrow."
"I could cook."
"You cook?"
"I survived twelve years in professional hockey. I can make pasta, eggs, and exactly one impressive dish I learned from a teammate's Italian grandmother."
"Which is?"
"Cacio e pepe. But only if you don't watch me make it, because my technique is questionable and the grandmother would be disappointed."
I laugh and his arms tighten around me.
"Deal" I say. "I won't look."
"Promise?"
"I'll face the wall like I'm in time out."
He presses a kiss to my forehead. Lingering. Warm.
"Tomorrow we save a bride," he says against my hair.
"Tonight we eat questionable pasta."
"That's the plan."
And tomorrow night, we figure out what happens when there's no one left to save but ourselves.