Chapter 21
LEXI
The next morning, sunlight poured through the blinds like it had something to prove. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you hear your own pulse.
Hannah must have come home sometime in the night—her shoes were by the door, her jacket draped over a chair—but she was already gone again. Her coffee mug had vanished, her phone charger, too, though she’d left a note in her tidy handwriting:
Press still circling. Don’t go anywhere without Lucas.
Of course, she underlined without Lucas twice.
He was already outside, pacing the porch, phone pressed to his ear, that soldier stillness coiled tight beneath the surface.
I watched him through the kitchen window while the espresso machine hissed.
Broad shoulders, black T-shirt, jeans—casual on anyone else, tactical on him.
He scanned the treeline even as he spoke, eyes always moving, assessing.
It hit me then how different our worlds were.
We had the day off from shooting—a mercy disguised as scheduling luck—but rest wasn’t in either of our skill sets. The silence felt like a dare.
I needed to breathe something that wasn’t fear.
So, I called Tabitha McCullough, my Charleston realtor, before I could talk myself out of it.
“Tell me you’ve got something private,” I said. “No neighbors. No gawkers. Something that feels like … mine.”
She laughed, the practiced kind. “Honey, everything on Kiawah has neighbors, but I have one that comes close. You’ll want to see it in person.”
“Text me the address,” I said.
Lucas walked in just as I ended the call. “What was that?”
“Something normal,” I said, setting my cup down. “I’m going to look at a house.”
He blinked once. “You’re house-shopping now?”
“Apparently, chaos inspires nesting instincts.”
He folded his arms. “Lexi—”
“Don’t. You’re coming with me. Hannah said so.” I gave him a look that dared him to argue. He didn’t.
Two hours later, we were following Tabitha’s white convertible down a winding road on Kiawah Island. The island unspooled in ribbons of sunlight and shadow, palmettos glinting like polished silver.
“This isn’t smart,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble over the hum of the engine.
“Define smart,” I said.
“You’re trending on three continents. Someone’s going to spot you.”
“Exactly why I need to get out,” I said. “I refuse to live like a fugitive.”
His jaw ticked once. “Most people don’t hide from cameras by driving to a seven-million-dollar beach house.”
“Most people don’t get stalked for existing,” I said, and that shut him up.
Tabitha’s car turned down a gravel lane framed by live oaks draped in Spanish moss. The sunlight flickered through branches like camera flashes. At the end of the drive stood the house—pale stucco, wide porches, glass everywhere. Money in architectural form.
“God,” I murmured, stepping out. “It’s like breathing wealth.”
Lucas scanned the perimeter before he shut his door. “It’s exposed.”
“It’s oceanfront,” I corrected, adjusting my sunglasses. “There’s a difference.”
He gave a humorless snort. “Not to a sniper.”
Tabitha met us on the steps, all coral lipstick and linen confidence. “There’s my favorite actress,” she trilled. “And you must be—”
“Security,” Lucas said flatly.
“Wonderful,” she said, undeterred. “Come see the view.”
Inside, the air smelled like eucalyptus and new paint. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, bouncing off marble floors. The living space opened directly onto glass doors and a deck that framed the Atlantic like a painting. The ocean glittered beyond the dunes, calm and deceptively harmless.
“Imported marble from Carrara,” Tabitha said. “Hand-carved banisters. Smart-home security. Ultra-discreet listing. The owners moved to Monaco.”
“Of course, they did,” I said, under my breath.
I walked to the glass doors, pressing a palm against the cool surface. “It’s beautiful,” I said.
Lucas’s reflection hovered beside mine, darker, solid. “It’s a liability.”
“Everything’s a liability to you.”
He didn’t blink. “Everything is.”
I turned, letting the sunlight fall across my shoulders. “You can’t see the beauty for the breach points, can you?”
He gave a half-smile. “That’s why I’m still alive.”
Tabitha reappeared, gesturing down the hallway. “You have to see the primary suite. Ocean views on three sides. I’ll give you two a moment.”
She vanished again before I could correct her assumptions. Although, maybe I shouldn’t bother.
The bedroom was outrageous—white walls, gauzy drapes, a bed big enough for indecision. Through the glass doors, the ocean glittered under a sky so blue it hurt.
I walked to the window and unlatched it. A breeze swept in, carrying salt and something electric. “If this isn’t peace,” I said, “it’s close enough.”
Charleston had gotten under my skin in ways I hadn’t expected. Maybe it was the light—the way it turned everything gold and forgiving—or the rhythm of the tides, steady and patient, like the city had learned long ago not to rush what mattered.
Or maybe it was Lucas.
The shoot had been chaos so far, sure—scandal, exhaustion, the constant press of eyes—but somewhere between the bar fight, the rain, and the quiet moments that didn’t make it to camera, something had shifted.
I’d started to imagine what it might feel like to have roots here.
A place that wasn’t a rental, a set, or a hotel suite I’d have to leave before sunrise.
And if I was honest—though I wasn’t ready to say it out loud—I could picture him here, too.
Not as protection detail or complication, but as something closer.
More dangerous. More permanent. The image startled me, soft and terrifying all at once, so I folded it away before he could see it on my face.
Lucas leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You really think you could live here?”
“I could relax here. Swim at dawn. Breathe without ten people watching.”
“Until someone finds it,” he said. “Then you’re trapped in a glass box.”
I turned, frustration rising. “Not everything is a tactical nightmare, Lucas.”
“It is when you’ve seen what I’ve seen.”
The words hit harder than I expected—raw, unvarnished. I crossed the room until I stood a few feet from him. “Then teach me. Show me what you see.”
His gaze met mine, steady and guarded. “You don’t want that.”
“Don’t tell me what I want.”
He pushed off the doorframe, closing the space between us until I could feel the heat radiating off him. “You think safety comes with price tags and privacy clauses. It doesn’t. Once you lose the illusion, there’s no getting it back.”
“Maybe, I already lost it,” I said softly.
Something in his face shifted—understanding, maybe sorrow. His hand came up, fingers grazing my wrist. The touch was feather-light, but it lit a fuse inside me.
“You shouldn’t have to live like this,” he said.
“And yet,” I whispered, “here we are.”
He exhaled, the sound half-sigh, half-surrender. “You make it hard to do my job.”
“Good.”
Before he could reply, a high-pitched whine cut through the air. I looked up. Out beyond the deck, a drone hovered, camera glinting like an unblinking eye.
He went rigid. “Stay back.”
“Press?” I asked.
“Or something else.” He stepped toward the door, scanning the horizon. “Either way, we’re leaving.”
“But—”
“No argument.” His tone left no room.
We walked fast through the house. Tabitha appeared at the end of the hall, smile faltering. “Everything all right?”
“Scheduling conflict,” I said quickly. “We’ll call.”
Lucas’s hand was warm and firm at the small of my back, guiding me out like a current. The second the car doors shut, he was already in motion, reversing down the drive with surgical precision.
The drone hung there a moment longer, then drifted off toward the dunes.
“Tell me that was paparazzi,” I said.
“Could be. Could also be someone who wants to know your routine.”
“Comforting.”
He didn’t answer.
We drove in silence for miles, the sea glittering to our left, marshland to our right. Finally, I said, “You hate everything I love.”
“I hate anything that can get you killed.”
“That’s not living.”
“It’s surviving,” he said. “Big difference.”
We hit the causeway, water stretching endless on both sides. He loosened his grip on the wheel just enough to glance at me. “You want honesty?”
I nodded.
“People like me—we don’t belong in houses like that.”
“You think I do?”
“You were built for it. Cameras love you. Light bends for you.”
I laughed softly. “That’s not love. That’s marketing.”
He almost smiled. “Same thing, sometimes.”
The tension eased just a fraction, replaced by something quieter, more dangerous.
We stopped at a small café off the highway, the kind with peeling paint and a chalkboard menu. Normal. Mercifully, beautifully normal.
Inside, the air smelled of coffee and butter. The waitress didn’t recognize me, or pretended not to. We took a corner booth, steam curling from mismatched mugs.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally, Lucas said, “You could still buy it. The house.”
“Would that make it better?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Might make it real.”
I studied him across the table, the sunlight cutting sharp lines across his face. “You ever want that?”
“What?”
“A place that’s yours. One you don’t have to scan for exits.”
He gave a short laugh. “You think I’d know what to do with peace?”
“Maybe learn,” I said.
His mouth twitched. “You think you could teach me?”
“I could try,” I said, matching his tone. “But you’d hate it. Too quiet. No enemies.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. “I can think of one thing I wouldn’t hate.”
The words curled low in my stomach. “Lucas—”
He didn’t finish whatever came next because his gaze flicked past me, out the window. The shift was immediate: soldier again, alert, still.
“What?” I asked.
“Black SUV,” he said quietly. “Two men inside. Haven’t moved since we parked.”
“Press?”
“Too patient,” he murmured. “Could be nothing. Could be everything.”
The calm way he said it made the blood drain from my face.
“What do we do?”
“We leave.”
He slid a twenty under the coffee cup and stood. I followed, heart hammering. The bell above the door jingled as we stepped into the heat.
“Act natural,” he said. “Walk, don’t run.”
We cut around the side of the building toward the back lot. I could feel the SUV’s gaze like heat on my skin. My pulse pounded in my throat.
When we reached the car, he opened my door first, scanning the horizon before circling to the driver’s side. Within seconds, we were back on the road, tires spitting gravel.
“Tell me that was nothing,” I said.
“I could,” he said evenly. “But I won’t lie to you.”
I looked out the window, the landscape blurring into streaks of green and blue. “So, what now?”
“Now we go somewhere no one can follow.”
“Dominion Hall?” I guessed.
His jaw tightened. “Maybe.”
We fell silent again. The tension between us stretched tight, a taut line between fear and desire.
Finally I said, “You think this ends if I hide?”
He shook his head. “No. But it ends faster if you don’t make yourself an easy target.”
The way he said it made something ache in my chest—not fear, but the sense that he’d already accepted whatever danger came with me.
We crossed back onto the mainland, the city skyline hazy in the distance. I thought about the house—the glass, the light, the illusion of control—and how quickly it had all turned to threat.
Money couldn’t buy peace. Fame couldn’t buy safety.
But sitting there beside the devastatingly handsome Lucas Dane, I wondered if maybe the only thing that could buy either was trust.