Chapter 16
Charlotte
The late-morning sun is warm on my face as Asher and I walk along the sleepy main street of Magnolia Ridge.
Quaint storefronts in pastel colors line the sidewalk: a bakery that smells like cinnamon rolls, a second-hand bookshop with sun-faded hardcovers in the window, and a boutique advertising hand-poured soy candles on a chalkboard sign.
It’s all very Hallmark-movie adorable, and for the first time since we arrived at the resort, I feel lighter.
“Town looks safe enough,” Asher says, scanning the street before he parks. His voice is calm, but his eyes never stop moving—mirrors, storefront glass, doorways.
“That hyper-vigilant thing you do,” I tease as I unclip my seat belt, “is it ever-off duty?”
He shrugs, that almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Never. Besides, you’re a magnet for trouble.”
“Excuse me? I am not the problem. Horses, stalkers, intrusive future wannabe mothers-in-law—those are the problems.”
“Point taken.” He rounds the hood and opens my door, offering a gallant hand. “Let’s try to keep today problem-free.”
I slip my fingers into his—because why not enjoy the perks of this fake-fiancé arrangement?—and hop down. “First stop,” I announce, “Pour Some Sugar On Me. The cute coffee shop on the corner. I need caffeine if I’m going to survive an afternoon of ‘retail therapy.’”
Inside the coffee shop, the barista greets us.
Asher orders two caramel macchiatos and a muffin for me.
He says I need to keep up my energy, and I roll my eyes.
Although, I secretly love how he’s always watching out for me.
We retreat to a corner table where he can keep his back to the wall and his gaze on the entrance.
“You know,” I say, stirring foam, “normal couples sit side by side and make heart eyes.”
“Are we normal?”
“Touché.” I bite my lip, pretending to ponder. “So tell me, Mr. Colorado, what’s your go-to coffee order when you’re not playing bodyguard?”
“Black. Nothing fancy.”
“Of course. Rugged manly man.” I lower my voice, imitating a dramatic movie trailer: “He drinks danger for breakfast… and bitter caffeine for lunch.”
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound sends a flutter through my chest. I add it to the growing list titled Things That Make Asher Human and Unreasonably Attractive.
From coffee we wander into the bookstore. Book, Spine, and Sinker. Asher pretends not to care as I flit between shelves, but I catch him smoothing a thumb over the spine of a battered Jack London novel. He looks…soft, almost wistful, like he’s seeing an old friend.
“If you need anything, I’m Millie,” the adorable bookstore owner says with a smile.
“Thank you, Millie,” I say, smiling back at her.
Asher keeps the novel in one hand while I weave deeper into the stacks, scooping up a collection of poetry for myself. When we reach the counter, Millie rings us up with a conspiratorial smile.
“Jack London’s one of my favorites,” she says, sliding the worn hardback into a paper bag. “That edition has a few margin notes from the previous owner. Makes it feel alive.”
Asher’s stoic mask cracks for half a second—genuine appreciation flickers in his eyes. “Thanks,” he says, tone softer than I’m used to hearing.
I pay for both books before he can argue. He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a playful glare. “Call it reconnaissance. I need to know your taste in literature.”
Outside, sunlight bounces off the vintage lettering of the boutique next door—SeaGlass Asher buys the journal despite token resistance. When we step back onto the street, canvas bags swinging between us, we wander to another little shop.
I try on a pair of comically oversized sunglasses shaped like flamingos. Asher snorts. “If you wear those to the resort, Nancy Sinclair’s head will explode.”
“Tempting,” I say, striking a pose. His gaze lingers a second too long, and heat prickles across my cheeks. Flamingo glasses go back on the rack in self-defense.
By mid-afternoon our bags hold scented candles, the vintage leather-bound journal for Asher, our books, Melanie’s gift, and a tiny succulent I’ve christened Spike.
We exit the last store, still laughing about the elderly shop owner who tried to sell Asher a “real cowboy hat, guaranteed to make your woman swoon.”
We’re halfway across the parking lot when the laughter drains from my chest. A prickling awareness crawls up my spine.
There’s the undeniable sense of being watched.
I slow, eyes darting across the sun-baked windshields and reflective shop windows.
There’s a mother wrangling toddlers, a teenager scrolling her phone, two retirees debating license-plate tags—normal, harmless… yet the feeling clings.
Asher notices. “What’s wrong?”
“Just… a vibe.” My voice sounds thin, silly even, but he doesn’t dismiss it. He scans the lot, jaw set.
We reach the truck. Asher unlocks the passenger door, but I freeze. A folded piece of paper is tucked beneath the windshield wiper. Plain white, no logo, just there.
Asher sees it too. “Stay back.” He plucks the note, eyes narrowed, then unfolds it with deliberate care. His shoulders tense.
“What does it say?” I whisper, hugging the shopping bags like a shield.
He hesitates, then hands it to me. The paper is cheap, the message typed, impersonal… except for the threat oozing between the words:
“FAIRYTALES DON’T END WELL FOR LIARS.
HE CAN’T PROTECT YOU FOREVER.”
There’s no signature. No hint of who he is. But I know. My stomach knots itself into origami.
I look up, and Asher’s expression is granite-hard, eyes scanning the perimeter. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“But—”
“Charlotte.” His voice brooks no argument. He ushers me into the cab, bags and all, then does a quick sweep of the truck bed before climbing in. As he starts the engine, my hands shake so badly the note rattles on my lap.
“Do you think it’s from Wade?” My words tumble out in a rush. “Or someone he’s working with? Melanie said he’s involved with shady—”
“Breathe,” Asher says, keeping his tone calm while his eyes flick from mirror to road. “We don’t know yet. But I’ll find out.”
The truck rolls onto the highway back to the resort. Anxiety buzzes under my skin, louder than the tires on the asphalt. Asher’s left hand tightens on the wheel; his right rests over the console, palm up, offering. I slide my fingers into his. He squeezes once and the buzzing quiets a notch.
“I had fun today,” I say softly, needing something normal to cling to.
A small smile flickers across his lips. “Me too. We’ll do it again, of course, without the welcome note.”
Does he really mean that?
I try to match his smile, but the paper still trembles in my free hand, and my heart pounds a fearful rhythm: He can’t protect you forever.
Maybe not forever, I think, glancing at Asher’s stoic profile. But right now, in this moment, he’s doing a damn good job. And I’m holding on for dear life.