12. Delaney
DELANEY
The door clicks shut behind him.
I don’t move.
For a few seconds—maybe longer—I just stand there, staring at the wood like it might open again. Like he might come back and finish what I’m pretty sure we both wanted.
I exhale slowly, but it doesn’t help. My breath doesn’t steady. My pulse doesn’t slow.
My wrist—
I flex it once and then again, as if I can work the feeling out of it—the warmth and tingling that still persists.
I can’t.
The spot where he held me still burns. Not in a bad way. But not in a good way either. Because as much as I yearn for Samson Vexley, I know I can’t go there.
“Stop,” I mutter.
Like that’s going to do anything.
I drop my hand, turn away from the door, and force myself to move.
Kitchen.
Water.
Something normal.
I grab a glass, fill it, take a long swallow. The coolness should help. Ground me. Pull me back.
Yeah, right.
I set the glass down harder than I mean to. The sound echoes in the quiet space.
God, everything feels off.
I brace my hands on the counter and close my eyes for a second.
Bad idea.
Because the moment I do, I’m right back there. Samson’s hand around my wrist. The heat of his body when he stepped too close. The way his voice dropped just before—
I open my eyes.
No.
Not going there.
I push off the counter, move into the living room, and fire up the laptop on my desk. If I stay still, I’m going to keep replaying it. And I’m not interested in reliving the moment I almost let Samson Vexley kiss me.
Except he moved away. I didn’t. He did. Maybe he wasn’t going to kiss me at all.
I mean, look at me. I’m attractive, but I’m not the kind of arm candy a man like Samson would want.
He’s gorgeous, but despite the expensive suits he wears, he’s not refined.
Far from it. There’s an edge to him. A dangerous edge.
I know because I’ve researched the Vexleys ad nauseum.
And having now spent time in Samson’s presence?
I’m even more aware of the danger surrounding him.
I click on the file on the marina. I pull up everything I’ve already collected—notes, articles, archived reports. The official version of Victor Halstead’s death hasn’t changed in fifteen years.
Accidental fall. Poor visibility. Case closed. If others were there, they were never identified.
I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. The only difference is that now I’m in a position to learn more. To dig deeper.
I’ve been through these files, but now I look again, remembering how the bartender told me it felt like it “had to happen.”
I read through maintenance logs. City permits. Archived service requests tied to the marina property. Most of it is routine and extremely boring. Repairs, inspections, replacements that don’t mean anything on their own.
I scroll. Click. Scroll again.
I sharpen my focus. Concentrate not so much on what’s there but what’s missing.
A few entries are incomplete. Filed but not followed up. Logged without supporting documentation.
That’s interesting. I open one. It’s nothing. Just a date and a timestamp. No other details.
I back out and try another. Same thing. It’s incomplete. Why log something if you’re not going to finish it?
Unless—
You don’t want a record.
I go back further, filtering by date. I’m looking for that single night fifteen years ago.
The screen fills with entries, most of them routine. Weather-related damage. Dock checks. Minor repairs.
Then—
It’s so small that I nearly scroll past it.
A maintenance request that was filed late but timestamped within the same window as everything else that night.
I click on it. For a second, I think it’s another dead end with minimal detail, no follow-up, and no closure.
Then I see it.
Lock replacement.
I scan the entry again.
Location field is blank. Request origin is internal. No technician was assigned and there’s no completion report. It was just filed…and left.
I sit back slightly, staring at the screen.
A lock was replaced the same night Victor Halstead went over the edge.
A lock…
Vexley House. The symbol. The key worked into the walls, the railing, the stone.
Clearly it means something. Does it open something? Or close something?
I lean back in my chair. A lock was changed that night, which means…
Something was accessed…or something was sealed.
Or maybe this is insignificant. I mean, locks are changed all the time, right?
Except I can’t let it go.
My heart pounds. I inhale slowly, but it doesn’t stop. I press my thumb to my wrist where he touched me. Like I maybe can override it if I try hard enough, press hard enough.
It doesn’t work.
My body doesn’t care what I want.
It remembers him anyway.
The way he leaned in.
The way he almost—
I exhale sharply and snap the laptop shut.
“Focus,” I say under my breath.
This is what matters.
The lock.
The request.
The timing.
Victor Halstead didn’t just die that night.
Something else happened.
Something someone didn’t want documented.
I lean forward again, reopen the laptop, and pull the file back up.
Lock replacement.
I sit there and stare at the screen. I’m missing something. Or am I seeing something that isn’t there?
“Christ,” I mutter, closing the laptop again.
I need sleep.
I head to my bedroom, wash my face, and change into my silk pajamas. I slide under the covers of my bed and turn onto my side. Then onto my back. Then the other side.
I adjust the pillow.
Shift again.
My body won’t relax.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Samson Vexley. Feel his hand on my wrist. See the danger in his amber eyes, know that I should stay away, that I shouldn’t want…
That I shouldn’t want that kiss. And everything else. Especially not when my research has led me to him.
I roll onto my back and drag a hand over my face. This is ridiculous. I should be thinking about the lock. About the report. About what really happened that night. About where I’m going tomorrow.
Instead—
All I can think about is Samson Vexley, his large muscled body hovering over me. His lips on mine, his hands touching me, pleasuring me…
Sleep doesn’t come.
Not for a long time.