Chapter 6
SIX
ANNISTON
I wake up slowly, wrapped in the kind of deep, dreamless sleep I haven’t had in months.
My head hit the pillow last night and it was lights out, like my body finally said enough and shut the whole system down.
No nightmares about knives or men in ball caps.
Just blessed, heavy darkness. Now morning light filters softly through the window, painting the wooden beams in warm gold.
I stretch under the thick quilt, toes pointing, arms reaching, and for one perfect second I almost forget why I’m in a hidden cabin in the woods with a man I barely know.
Then it all rushes back. The attack. The escape. Banks Hawthorne and his calm gray-blue eyes. My stomach flips, half fear, half something a lot warmer and more dangerous.
I sit up, finger-comb my messy hair, and tug on the oversized hoodie I grabbed from my duffel last night.
My bare legs look ridiculous with the hoodie, but there’s no one here to impress.
Except there is. And he is unfairly impressive.
I grab a pair of shorts and slip them on.
I rush into the bathroom and brush my teeth, and then make my way into the kitchen.
The smell of coffee and something savory hits me halfway down the hallway and makes my mouth water.
Banks is already up, of course. He stands at the stove in a fresh black thermal shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders, flipping what looks like pancakes with one hand while his other scrolls across the tablet propped on the counter.
His dark hair is slightly tousled, jaw shadowed with morning stubble, and he looks like a man who could star in both an action movie and a very tasteful cologne ad.
God, why does he have to be so ridiculously good-looking? It’s not helpful when I’m trying to stay focused on not dying.
“Morning,” I say, my voice still husky from sleep.
He glances over his shoulder and gives me a small, genuine smile that does unfair things to my pulse. “Morning. Sleep okay?”
“Like a baby. Out cold the second my head hit the pillow. I think my body just decided to file for bankruptcy on all the adrenaline I used yesterday.” I walk closer and lean against the counter, watching him work.
“You look like you’ve been up for hours saving the world and making breakfast. Do you ever sleep? ”
“Enough.” He slides a pancake onto a plate already stacked with them. “Coffee is fresh. Help yourself.”
I pour a mug, adding way too much sugar because my nerves need it, and sip while I study him.
The way his forearms flex when he reaches for the syrup.
The focused line between his brows as he checks something on the tablet.
Seriously, it should be illegal to look this attractive while making pancakes in a safe house.
I blurt it out before I can stop myself. “Has anyone ever told you that you are stupidly handsome? Like, it’s actually distracting. I’m trying to be scared for my life here and you’re flipping pancakes looking like that. Not helpful, Banks. Not helpful at all.” Oh my God. Shut up, Anniston.
He pauses mid-flip and raises one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Noted.”
I groan and hide my face behind my coffee mug. “I’m so sorry. I get chatty and complimentary when I’m nervous. It’s obviously a problem.”
He chuckles as he sets two plates on the small table and nods toward a chair. “Sit. Eat. You’ll feel better with food in you.”
I sit. The pancakes are golden and perfect, drizzled with syrup and topped with some canned fruit he warmed up.
I take a bite and actually moan out loud.
“Okay, these are unfairly good. You cook like this and protect people from knife-wielding maniacs? I’m starting to think you’re not a real person. ”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
The food’s warm and grounding, and for a little while the fear from yesterday loosens its grip.
But as soon as my plate’s mostly empty, the nerves come rushing back.
I set my fork down and reach into the pocket of my hoodie where I have kept the small black USB drive since this morning.
“I need to show you something,” I say, pulling it out and sliding it across the table.
“This is why they’re after me. I stole it from the offices of Meridian Financial two weeks ago.
It has everything. Transaction logs, shell company names, transfers to that D.C.
consultancy I keep seeing pop up. Names.
Like Alden Shaw. Dates. Amounts that don’t make sense unless someone’s moving a lot of dirty money. ”
Banks picks up the USB, turning it over in his fingers. His expression shifts into full professional mode, but his eyes stay warm when they meet mine. “After breakfast,” he says firmly. “Finish eating first. Then we’ll go through it together on the secure laptop.”
I nod and force down the last few bites, my knee bouncing under the table.
When we’re both done, he clears the plates with quick efficiency and pulls out a rugged black laptop from his bag.
We move to the couch. He plugs in the USB and opens the files while I sit close enough to feel the heat radiating from his arm.
Every time a new document loads, my heart races. I keep sneaking glances at him instead of the screen. The concentrated furrow of his brow. The way his jaw tightens when he reads something particularly bad. The steady strength in his hands as he scrolls.
“You’re doing the handsome thing again,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “It’s very distracting when I’m trying to focus on federal crimes.”
He stares at me, his eyes searing into mine, and then he huffs a quiet laugh. “Try to stay with me here, Anniston.”
The files are worse than I remembered. Rows of payments. Coded references to private security firms. Mentions of “asset neutralization” that make my skin crawl. Banks leans in closer, shoulder brushing mine, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning into him.
“This connects to the same network my brothers and I’ve been chasing,” he says after a long minute, voice low. “The consultancy. The shell nonprofits. It’s all linked. Your research just gave us a whole new set of doors to kick down.”
I swallow hard. “So I really am in the middle of whatever mess your family is in.”
He turns to look at me then, his face inches from mine. Those gray-blue eyes are intense, steady, and way too easy to get lost in. My breath catches.
“You’re not alone in this anymore,” he says quietly. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
I stare at his mouth for half a second too long before I catch myself. “You know, for a man who’s supposed to be keeping me alive, you’re making it very difficult not to develop a massive crush. This is terrible timing. I should be terrified, not noticing how good you smell.”
Banks holds my gaze for a long moment. Something flickers across his face, heat mixed with restraint, before he looks back at the screen. “Focus on the files, Anniston.”
“Right,” I whisper, cheeks burning. “Files. Murder. Danger. Got it.”
But as we keep reading side by side on the couch, knees brushing, I can’t help thinking that if I have to be on the run for my life, at least I’m doing it with the most attractive, competent, slightly broody man I’ve ever met.
And that thought is almost enough to make the fear feel bearable. Almost.