CHAPTER 4
Tessa
Iwake slowly, the way you do when your body is exhausted but your mind refuses to stay quiet.
For a moment, I don’t recognize the ceiling above me. It isn’t the soft off-white of my bedroom in Fremont. The sheets are crisp, heavier than mine, and the mattress doesn’t dip the way it should.
Then it comes back to me in a rush.
Erik.
The garage.
Cole.
I push myself up onto my elbows and take in the room properly.
It’s spare but not impersonal—muted gray walls that smell faintly of fresh paint, a single framed black-and-white photograph of the Seattle waterfront hung above a low dresser.
No personal items. It’s the guest room of someone who lives alone and doesn’t expect company often.
Cole’s apartment.
My memories of last night after leaving my home are blurred from my exhaustion fighting with the remnants of adrenaline.
I sort of remember the quiet drive into Pioneer Square—brick buildings rising out of the dark, the streets quieter at that hour but not empty. I’d asked him where we were going, and he’d said simply, “Work.”
The building looked typical from the outside. Restored brick. Romanesque arches on the upper floors. Ornate stonework. A building that would house perhaps a law firm or boutique investment group.
Then he’d turned into the alley.
A steel garage door had blended so seamlessly into the stonework that I almost missed it.
A small box mounted on a pole stood sentry…
the type you hold up a badge to for entry.
But Cole leaned toward it through his open window and I gasped when I saw a red scanning beam move over those expressive green-gold eyes.
The door lifted, we entered a private parking garage, and Cole pulled into a corner spot. Next was a smooth ride in an elevator, after which he guided me down a quiet corridor that had apartments on either side—wood doors with brass knockers and labeled with letters instead of numbers.
He led me to apartment C and opened the door with an electronic key.
“This is where you work?” I’d asked.
“And live,” he said.
The apartment itself had surprised me. A blend of modern steel and reclaimed wood, tall ceilings, exposed brick on one wall. That’s about all I’d taken in before he walked me straight to this room, told me to sleep, and I’d been too wrung out to argue.
Now, in the daylight, I hear movement beyond the door. A soft clink of ceramic. The low gurgle of a coffee machine.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and engage in a long yawn and stretch. I grab a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from my bag, lace on some sneakers and run a quick brush through my hair before I decide I’m ready to face Cole.
When I open the bedroom door, the apartment unfolds in front of me—a long, spacious living area anchored by a kitchen island of dark stone. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, the morning light diffused by the usual haze drifting over the city.
Cole stands at the island with his back partially to me, hip leaning against the counter.
He has a mug of coffee steaming in one hand, the other hand working the track pad on his laptop as he reviews something.
Morning light from the wall of windows catches along the hard line of his shoulders and the thick column of his neck.
I look for the differences or similarities after five years apart.
His dark hair is slightly longer on top than the military cut he used to wear.
He has it pushed back in a way that exposes the scar near his temple I used to trace with my fingertip when he couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t anything so interesting as a war wound, but rather he’d run into the corner of a cabinet when he was a kid, earning a handful of stitches.
He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt that stretches clean across his back and chest, fitted in a way that showcases his dedication to the gym.
The sleeves hug his upper arms, and I know—without seeing them—that the ink beneath is still there.
The compass on his left bicep, the wildfire line work circling his right that he had placed as a permanent reminder of the heat he’s walked through.
Cole turns just enough that I catch his profile—the sharp plane of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble he never quite shaves smooth, the straight line of his nose that was broken once and set well enough to pass.
His mouth is firm but not unkind, lips pressed together around whatever he’s thinking.
His eyes, when they flick toward me, are the same unusual shade of hazel that used to pin me in place and make me forget what argument I was trying to win.
I forgot how handsome he is.
No—that’s not true.
I tried to forget.
My eyes drop before I can stop the movement, skimming down the front of him where the T-shirt stretches across his chest, remembering the feel of those muscles under my palms, the warmth of his skin, the way the ink beneath would flex when he laughed.
I remember mornings at my kitchen island in Fremont, him shirtless and barefoot, coffee in one hand, looking exactly like this—only then, he’d reach for me without hesitation.
Now there’s distance measured in more than just space.
He senses me watching and turns fully, one brow lifting slightly as his eyes sweep over me in return. It isn’t crude. It isn’t possessive.
It’s assessing.
And barely beneath it, there’s a feeling dangerously close to the same heat curling low in my stomach.
Great.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough with what I always imagined was the smoke of a hundred fires he’d battled in his life.
For a second, the memory of his mouth against mine is so vivid I have to curl my fingers tighter around the doorframe to stay upright. “Morning,” I reply.
“Sleep?” he asks.
“Some.”
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.
“Coffee’s fresh,” he says, throwing a nod to the pot on the back counter and an empty mug there waiting for me.
The smell hits me then—dark roast, strong, real. Normalcy in the middle of a situation that is anything but and I hasten to pour myself a cup.
“Did you just move here?” I ask once I have my coffee in hand, leaning against the counter. “This place looks really new.”
“Yeah… few months ago when I came on board.” He looks back to his laptop.
I glance at him for clarification. “So, you work in this building too?”
His eyes dart to me, then back to his computer. “Housing’s one of the perks for the agents, if we want it. I’ll show you the rest of the place in a bit.”
“And what exactly do you do here?” I ask. And since he called me out on it last night, I go all in. “When I looked up Jameson Force Security, I wasn’t given much.”
“It’s more of a personal referral kind of business,” he says as he closes the laptop and pushes it back several inches.
“You know that answer won’t work with an investigative journalist,” I chide.
His mouth curves into an amused smile and I’d forgotten how much it ratchets up the man’s hot factor.
Cole sips his coffee. “We handle problems people can’t take to the police. High-risk security, extraction, corporate espionage, counterintelligence. Kidnapping recoveries. Protective details when the threat level’s more than a bodyguard and a suit can manage.”
My brows lift slightly. “That’s… broad.”
“It’s supposed to be,” he replies evenly.
“We’ve got analysts who track digital footprints across borders, tactical teams that can move someone out of a hostile environment in under an hour, former federal agents, former military.
If someone’s being hunted, extorted, framed, or targeted and the usual channels are compromised, we step in.
” He shrugs one shoulder like it’s no big deal.
“Think of it as private-sector insurance for when it goes sideways.”
“And you?” I press, because Cole is a man of many dangerous talents. “What’s your role in all that?”
His gaze sharpens a fraction. “Just a field agent who does a little bit of everything, but I specialize in fire behavior and terrain analysis. And if someone needs moving out of a bad situation?” He sets the mug down with a quiet thud. “I’m one of the guys who makes that happen.”
There’s no bravado in his tone. Just fact.
“And this building?” I ask, glancing around the sleek apartment, the controlled quiet of the space. “It’s both work and living. Interesting combo.”
“Front looks like a boutique risk-management firm,” he says.
“Inside, it’s executive offices, training facilities, secured apartments for agents, operations hub in the basement that doesn’t officially exist.” A fond smile drifts over his face.
“It’s really an incredible place the owner, Kynan McGrath, has created. ”
“A fortress,” I murmur. “You guys don’t do subtle.”
“Subtle’s overrated.” His eyes meet mine again, steady and unreadable. “This would be the perfect place to keep you safe until this is all sorted out.”
I shake my head. “But you understand I’m staying—”
“Speaking of the team,” he interrupts, holding up his arm to glance at his watch. “We got to get going. Malik’s waiting for us.”
“Malik? Who’s Malik?” I ask, but Cole ignores me.
He grabs his laptop and opens the door to his apartment, tossing his head for me to precede him out the door.
“But I need a shower,” I protest.
“No time,” Cole says, jerking his head again. “Malik said eight a.m., so we need to be down there at eight a.m.”
No clue who the hell Malik is, but I take my first and only sip of coffee, risking a small glare from Cole that I’m not hustling. I set the mug down and look around for my briefcase. He had put all the documents as well as the flash drive in it last night and left it on his kitchen table.
“Where’s my briefcase? We’ll probably need that stuff.”
“I already got it in the right hands.” Cole makes a sweeping motion for me to get out the door. “Josie will have a handle on it by the time we get down there.”
“Who’s Josie?” I ask in irritation as I push past him into the hall.
“I’ll introduce you when we get there.”