CHAPTER 3 #2
Tessa sighs and drops the flash drive back onto the island counter before stepping into the living room.
She takes a seat on the edge of the couch and rubs her forehead.
“Look, Cole… I’m not asking for your lectures or your approval.
I’m asking for your expertise. I need help and I don’t have anyone else who understands fire the way you do. ”
Fire?
The word curls inside me like smoke, wrapping around all my old wounds.
She meets my eyes, voice tight. “Can you help me? Or tell me who can? I’ve got a little bit in savings I could pay you—”
“I don’t want your damn money,” I growl as I start pacing the tiny area between her kitchen and living room.
I consider my dilemma. Tessa and I had no animosity when we broke up. It was a mutual agreement and while yes, it was painful, I never held hard feelings. Not even when she refused to give up the dangerous work to save our relationship. I only ever wanted her to be happy.
And alive. I want her to remain alive.
For a moment, all I can do is look at her—the woman I loved, the woman I lost, the woman in front of me bruised with fear she refuses to acknowledge, and I know I can’t let her go it alone.
I’m involved now.
I move to the couch and sit next to her, the cushion dipping between us. “I’ll help you.” Relief slams across her features, but she hides it quickly. “But you’re doing it on my terms.”
Tessa cocks an eyebrow, skepticism in her tone. “What are your terms?”
“I’ll help with the fire evidence, but you’re going to need protection. You’ve clearly kept tabs on me because you referenced my current employer.” Tessa’s face flames red. “Well, that’s what Jameson does. We protect.”
“I can’t afford—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the money, Tessa,” I growl and stand from the couch. “You’ve involved me now so you’re going to do things my way. That starts with you packing your shit. You’re coming home with me so I can keep an eye on you.”
The change comes over her instantaneously as she lurches to her feet. Hardened glint in her eye, uplifted stubborn chin, ramrod straight spine. “I am not going to let you lock me up in some little apartment just because you think that will keep me safer.”
“I don’t live in some little apartment,” I advise her, heading back into the kitchen where I gather up all the papers spread about. “Now, go pack your bags.”
“No,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not uprooting my life just to soothe your indignation over me pursuing this. I’m not yours to worry over anymore, Cole.”
That cuts deep but it’s true. She’s not mine, but the worry is very much an issue. “Tessa,” I say, attempting a reasonable, slightly pleading tone. “I have unmatched resources to help you see this through and a level of protection that will keep you safe while you’re doing it.”
“At what cost, though? My independence? My autonomy? I’m not giving that up. Besides, I think I can reasonably assume there is no imminent danger. No one knew I was there last night.”
“Not yet,” I snap.
“But not now,” she retorts.
I huff a breath of frustration, scrubbing my hand through my hair. “Fine,” I say, throwing my arms to the sides. “But I want you to let me upgrade your security here.”
“Fine,” she clips out.
“But until I can do that, I want you with me. We can’t say with absolute certainty your identity is safe and until I can get your house secured tomorrow, you’re not staying here.”
Tessa lifts her chin a little higher. “Just for tonight.”
“Only until I get your house secured, but I think we can get it done tomorrow.”
When our eyes meet again, a shift happens—old hurt, old longing, old heat. Tessa stares at me with those big blue eyes that are haunted but unbroken. “Okay… I’ll pack an overnight bag.”
Tessa heads down the hall to her bedroom and I blow out a long breath. I brace my hands on the edge of the butcher-block island and let my head dip for a second, staring at the spread of maps and contracts like they’ll rearrange themselves into a simpler solution if I give them enough time.
They won’t.
Neither will this.
Down the hall, I hear the muted slide of dresser drawers, the soft thud of a closet door. I gather the flash drive first, slipping it into my pocket before stacking the documents. If RainVest is as ruthless as this looks, this house is no longer neutral ground.
The last time I stood in this kitchen, we were arguing about risk and compromise. About how much danger was acceptable in a life shared with someone else. I’d drawn a line. She refused to cross over to join me. We both pretended it was principle instead of fear.
Now we’re standing on opposite sides again, and it’s worse.
Because this time the threat isn’t abstract. It has a body. A vehicle, actually.
I try to tamp down the surge of old instinct that says solve the problem, control the perimeter, neutralize the threat. That part of me is easy. Tactical.
The rest of it isn’t.
When Tessa comes back down the hallway with a bag slung over her shoulder, her expression is steadier than it was when I walked in. Still shaken. Still pale. But set.
We hold each other’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
“This is temporary,” she says, as if she needs to remind herself.
“Yeah,” I answer.
I pull the bag from her shoulder and head for the door, flicking off lights as I go. The porch light spills across the quiet Fremont street when I open the door, the air cooler now. The neighborhood looks peaceful.
I step aside so Tessa can lock the door behind us, watching the way her hands steady themselves before she slides the dead bolt home.
Whatever this is, whether it’s unfinished business, collateral damage, or some sort of second chance, it’s about to get very messy.