Chapter 37
Rowan woke before sunrise.
She lay still beneath the blankets, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling and trying to remember where she was.
Then the events of the night before came rushing back all at once.
The garage. The porch. Wes.
The moment she’d almost kissed him.
Heat crept into her face despite the cool room.
What in the world had she been thinking?
The answer came too quickly.
She hadn’t been thinking. She’d been feeling.
And at that moment she’d known she still loved him.
The realization pressed on her chest as she rolled onto her back again.
Nothing about that made sense.
Not with everything happening. Not with danger circling Refuge Cove. Not with her life unraveling three thousand miles away.
Especially when she still didn’t know whether she even had a future to go back to.
Or even if she wanted to go back if she could.
After another few minutes she finally gave up on sleep and slipped from bed.
The house remained dark and silent as she padded downstairs in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. She found coffee waiting in the kitchen—the coffee pot was on a timer—and poured herself a cup.
Cup in hand, she retreated upstairs again and closed herself inside her room.
She curled into the corner of the bed and reached for her laptop.
She’d been avoiding it since arriving at Refuge Cove.
But she couldn’t hide in the mountains forever pretending Los Angeles no longer existed . . . even if part of her desperately wanted to.
The screen glowed to life, and notifications flooded across the display.
Missed calls. Unread texts. Dozens of emails.
Though she’d expected them, her stomach tightened.
Most of the messages blurred together quickly as she skimmed them.
Where are you?
Call me ASAP.
The press is getting worse.
Vince is saying you’re unstable.
Her jaw tightened at that last one.
A few entertainment sites had emailed interview requests directly to her public account. One subject line used the words MENTAL HEALTH CRISIS in all caps.
Rowan closed her eyes at the words.
Her coffee no longer tasted good. She shouldn’t have put this off so long. She should have known to do damage control, to not believe that if she stuck her head in the sand her problems would disappear.
After taking a deep breath, she kept scrolling. Then she stopped.
One email near the middle of the inbox caught her attention for reasons she couldn’t immediately explain.
Lauren Holt.
The last name hit first.
Holt.
Could that be . . . someone related to Thayer?
Rowan sat up straighter.
She vaguely remembered him mentioning a sister once or twice during long days on set. He’d said she lived in Kentucky somewhere. Maybe outside of Louisville. Younger sister. Teacher.
The email had arrived two days ago, and the subject line: Please read. It’s about my brother.
Wes had been awake for nearly two hours before the rest of the house started stirring. He’d waited until a few minutes ago to come downstairs, however.
Caleb had offered to let him stay here after the break-in at Hollow House. He’d said they had the extra space. Wes had considered the offer before accepting.
He currently didn’t have his truck, so driving was a problem. But really, the thought of being closer to Rowan had sealed the deal. He felt better, felt like Rowan was safer, when he could keep an eye on her.
He wouldn’t tell her that, of course.
Now, morning sunlight spilled across the kitchen table in long gold bands, warming the stack of paperwork spread around his laptop. Security maps. Camera-placement sketches. Cost estimates for upgraded fencing along the tree line.
The proposal for Refuge Cove had started as a straightforward consulting job.
Now it felt personal.
Remington lay beneath the table near Wes’s feet, occasionally lifting his head whenever movement sounded elsewhere in the house. Then he settled again.
Wes leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand across his jaw as he reviewed the newest perimeter layout.
The property had too many blind spots. Too many wooded approaches. Too many places someone patient could watch from without being seen.
A soft sound on the stairs pulled his attention up.
Rowan stepped into the kitchen carrying her laptop against her chest.
Wes felt the now-familiar tightening low in his chest before he could stop it.
She wore jeans and a cream-colored sweater that hung loose at one shoulder. Her hair remained pulled back carelessly, though a few strands had escaped around her face.
But her face held his attention.
She looked pale, distracted, and shaken in a quieter way than fear.
Remington rose and crossed to her, rubbing against her legs before she absently scratched behind his ears.
“Morning,” Wes said.
“Morning.” She glanced at the paperwork spread across the table. “You’ve been working awhile?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
The corner of her mouth moved faintly. “Same.”
Wes noticed the way her grip tightened against the edge of the laptop.
Something had happened, he realized.
“What is it?” he murmured.
Rowan hesitated. Then she crossed the kitchen and set the laptop on the table beside his paperwork. “I finally checked my email.”
Wes straightened. “And?”
Her eyes lifted to his. “I found a message from Thayer Holt’s sister.”
“What kind of message?”
“I don’t know yet.” Rowan swallowed hard. “I haven’t opened it.”
For a second neither of them moved. Then Wes looked at the laptop screen. The unread email remained unopened in the center.
Please read. It’s about my brother.
Wes looked back at Rowan. “You think she knows something?”
“I think she’s afraid,” Rowan murmured. “And I think whatever scared Thayer may have scared her too.”