Chapter 2
Ileave. That's the smart thing to do. At that point, I’m not sure I have any other option.
I'm back in my car, engine running, hands gripping the steering wheel like it might keep my heart from hammering out of my chest. My phone sits in the cup holder, screen dark, the ghost of that deleted video haunting me.
Should I have protested? I mean, what right did he actually have to tell me to delete it? His words echo through my mind.
Government property. Classified infrastructure. Ty Garcia.
I replay his voice in my head as I ease down the narrow road he pointed me toward. The edge of authority in his tone that made something in my stomach flutter and clench. The way he looked at me. The way he said my name.
The way he called me good girl and my entire nervous system lit up like Christmas.
I should be embarrassed. I should be focused on the fact that I just stumbled onto something I absolutely was not supposed to see and got caught red-handed by someone who could probably make me disappear with a phone call.
Instead, all I can think about is the way his jaw tightened when I hesitated. The way his eyes tracked my every movement like I was something that needed to be monitored. Controlled.
Protected.
How I felt safe, not threatened with his ordering me around.
I wasn’t scared, not for a second. I was, however, turned on.
And my body’s reaction to this man is confusing me.
It’s never happened to me before. I’ve never been turned on by a stranger.
Good looking or not. It wasn’t just his physical looks, because damn he’s fine, it was the way he carried himself. He had Daddy written all over him.
I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the turn onto the main road.
The GPS comes back to life with a cheerful ping, recalculating my route back to Aspen Pine like nothing happened.
Like I didn't just have the most intense five minutes of my life in a frozen clearing with a man whose job description is probably classified.
I should forget about him. About this. About all of it. Especially how I physically felt. About how I’m pretty sure my underwear is wet. I should. But I can’t. I spend the next three days thinking nonstop about Ty Garcia.
And it is exactly three days before I see him again.
I'm at The Perk, my favorite (and the only) coffee shop in downtown Aspen Pine that's become my de facto office since I arrived two weeks ago.
It's cozy in that deliberately rustic way that mountain towns do so well: exposed beams, vintage ski posters, a fireplace that actually works.
The kind of place that photographs beautifully and makes decent lattes.
No matcha here, but I can go without for a few weeks.
I'm filming a quick morning routine video. Every detail is planned out. I’m wearing an oversized cream sweater, my hair is in a messy bun, and steam is rising artfully from my mug as snow falls outside the picture window behind me.
I'm mid-sip, mid-smile, practicing that effortless influencer thing I've spent years perfecting, when the bell over the door chimes.
And my body reacts before my brain catches up.
That same tall frame. That same dark jacket. That same controlled, deliberate way of moving like he's always exactly where he's supposed to be and everyone else is just visiting. The Daddy Dom energy coming off every pore in his body.
Ty Garcia.
He spots me instantly. His gaze locks on like a heat-seeking missile, dark eyes finding mine across the crowded coffee shop with an intensity that makes my breath stutter. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Then he walks straight toward me.
Uh oh. Somehow, I know, I just know, I’m in trouble.
I lower my phone slowly, my practiced smile going stiff at the edges. My heart is doing that stupid thing again—the flutter-pound-race that makes me feel like I'm sixteen and not a twenty-six-year-old woman who should have better control over her autonomic nervous system.
“You,” he says when he reaches my table.
“Me,” I agree, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
His eyes flick to my phone, still in my hand. “Recording?”
“I was. Not anymore.”
“Good.”
There it is again…that tone. Approval laced with authority, settling warm and heavy in my chest. Who is he to me to approve or disapprove of my actions? No one. And yet… his approval does something to me.
He gestures to the empty chair across from me. It's not quite a question. “May I?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He sits and up close in better light, I can see details I missed before: the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his shoulders fill out that jacket in a way that suggests he spends serious time in a gym or outside chopping wood.
Maybe, he’s a lumberjack bodyguard. I know better.
He’s government, right? I mean, that’s what he said.
He orders a black, no sugar coffee and then turns his full attention back to me.
“You didn't post anything from the other day,” he says. It's not a question.
“You told me not to.” When I’d gotten home, I realized the video was in my deleted folder, still accessible. I was tempted, very tempted, to disobey his order. I might be reckless but I’m not that reckless.
“And you listened.”
Something in the way he says it makes my stomach flip. Like he's surprised, maybe pleased.
“I'm not an idiot,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I’m not going to go against a federal agent.”
His mouth curves just barely, just enough. “I didn't say you were.” His tone is lowered, a warning. I can’t miss the shift in his tone.
“Then why are you checking up on me?” Is that what he’s doing? It feels like it.
“Because you post your location a lot. And that's dangerous.” He’s not wrong. I post my location. What he doesn’t know is, I never post it live. When I post my story about today, I won’t be here at the coffee shop. I’m not that stupid.
I bristle despite the heat coiling low in my belly. “It's kind of my job.”
“I know what your job is, Madison.” He leans back slightly, arms crossing over his chest in a way that shouldn't be attractive but absolutely is. “I looked you up.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You googled me?”
“Call it due diligence,” he says. “Three million followers. Daily content. Location tags on approximately seventy percent of your posts.” He frowns with the last sentence.
I feel weirdly exposed. Seen in a way that has nothing to do with cameras. “So, you're what—my self-appointed security consultant now?” Or stalker? Is he a stalker? No, I tell myself. I chose to be an influencer and put my life in front of the world. Of course he found me easily.
Something like that.
“And if I don't want your consultation?”
His eyes darken just slightly. “Then I'll be disappointed. But I'll respect it and leave you alone.”
The honesty of it catches me off guard. The lack of pressure. The way he's giving me an out even as every instinct in my body is screaming at me not to take it. Definitely not a stalker. Does this mean he’s into me? Attracted by me, too? Could it be?
His coffee arrives. He doesn't touch it immediately, just watches me with that steady, assessing gaze.
“You're used to people listening to you,” I say finally. “Obeying your orders.”
“I am.”
“And if I don't?”
His voice drops, taking on an edge that makes my skin prickle with awareness. “If you don’t listen to me? After you’ve consented to my… consultation?” He pauses and I nod. “Then I'd have to get more involved.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It's a promise,” he says evenly. “To keep you safe. It is apparent that someone has to look after you.”
The words hang between us, heavy with implication.
I should be offended. I should tell him I don't need a keeper, that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, that I've been doing this for years without some mysterious government operative deciding I need protection.
I should tell him to go fuck all the way off and leave me alone. I should tell him…
Instead, I hear myself say, “And what would that look like? You being involved?”
Something shifts in his expression, almost a sense of relief. There’s heat beneath the control, interest beneath the authority. I can’t miss it. He’s attracted to me the same way I am to him. My breath hitches as I wait for him to answer.
“That depends,” he says slowly, “on whether you actually want to know. Or whether you're just testing boundaries.”
“Maybe both?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine. “Then we'd need to have a very different conversation. One that requires honesty. Consent. Clear expectations.”
My pulse kicks. “Um, are we still talking about internet safety?”
“No,” he says quietly. “We're not.”
The air between us crackles with tension.
I realize it’s definitely not about internet safety anymore and everything to do with the way he's looking at me. Somehow in our brief interaction three days ago he figured me out. He’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking, and he is waiting to see if I'm brave enough to say it out loud. To admit I’m a little in need of a Daddy.
The thought both terrifies and thrills me. Is it all in my head?
No, not this time. This time, my radar is correct. I’m pretty positive the man sitting across from me figured out my deepest, most intimate secret, in less than five minutes with me. Was it the way I blushed when he called me a good girl?
“I should probably go,” I manage.
“Probably,” he agrees. “But you won't.”
He's right. I won't. I don’t want to. I want to see where this could go.
Instead, I take a sip of my now-cold latte and meet his eyes. “So, what happens now?”
“Now,” he says, “you finish your coffee. You don't post about this conversation. And you think about whether you want me to walk away and never look back or step closer and never leave.”
“And if I choose closer?”
“Then you text me,” he says, pulling out his phone and sliding it across the table. “Put your number in.
I should hesitate. I should at least pretend to think about it.
I don't.
My fingers are shaking slightly as I type in my contact information. I hand the phone back, and he glances at the screen, his mouth quirking slightly at whatever name I saved myself under.
“Madison Grace Summers,” he reads aloud.
“That's my name.”
“I know and your friends call you Madi,” He sends me a quick text with his number and pockets his phone. “I'll be in touch.”
He stands, dropping a twenty on the table even though his coffee probably costs four dollars. “Finish your work, turn off your location and stay in public places. And, Madison?”
I look up at him, my heart in my throat.
“Behave,” he says, and the word lands like a physical touch.
Before I can respond—before I can even process the heat flooding through me—he's gone.
Leaving me with cold coffee, hot skin from the blush penetrating my cheeks, and the absolute certainty that I am in way over my head.
And that I don't want to surface.