Chapter 2
TWO
ROWAN
If you ever want to see how much someone loves you, announce you’re “fine” and then watch your mother spend a small fortune proving you are not.
I’m standing on a private airstrip outside Tidehaven, clutching a tote bag that cost more than my first car, wearing sunglasses that make me look like a celebrity who has either committed a crime or is about to commit one.
The wind keeps slapping my hair into my lip gloss like it has a personal vendetta.
Two hangars. One small terminal. A line of tinted SUVs that scream, We don’t do soccer practice.
And me. Rowan Sands. Investigative journalist. Professional pot-stirrer. Current star of an unwanted action movie titled: Girl Gets Murdered For Asking Questions.
My phone buzzes for the fourth time in five minutes.
MOTHER: Where are you standing right now?
I thumb out a response with stiff fingers.
ME: On the ground. Alive. A little windy. And a whole lot of humidity. 10/10 would not recommend.
MOTHER: Any sign of him?
Him. As if he’s a mythological creature. As if I’m waiting for a unicorn to trot out of the horizon carrying a tactical backpack and emotional unavailability.
ME: Not yet. If he’s the best, does he come with a receipt and a return policy?
No typing bubbles. Just immediate silence, which is how you know I have annoyed Elena Sands, queen of ice and contingency plans.
I sigh and glance toward the terminal door again.
This whole thing is absurd. I am twenty-five years old. I pay my taxes. I have a retirement account. I have an air fryer. I shouldn’t be waiting at an airstrip to be “extracted.”
But the second attempt on my life happened last night, and it was not subtle.
Someone took a run at my car on I-26 like they were trying to audition for a Fast and Furious spinoff called Guns, Lies, and Traffic Cones.
They didn’t honk. They didn’t slow down.
They didn’t even pretend it was an accident.
They just came hard and fast, clipping my rear bumper until my tires screamed and my heart did a full-body exit.
I kept the car on the road because I’m stubborn and, apparently, fueled by spite. Then I got home and found my front door scratched up around the lock like someone had gotten impatient. The police said it was “probably a random break-in attempt.”
Sure. And I’m probably a part-time ballerina.
I shift my tote higher on my shoulder and try to ignore the jittery feeling in my stomach. I don’t get scared easily. Fear is a luxury when your job involves digging into powerful people who prefer their secrets buried with the same dedication they bury evidence.
But this is different.
This is personal.
My last story was about a pipeline of corporate money feeding into shell nonprofits, then into lobbying, then into a series of “unrelated” contracts awarded to a company that has no employees, no public address, and a board made up of people who are technically alive but mostly act like ghosts.
Then I asked the wrong question to the wrong man at the wrong fundraiser. And now someone wants to keep me quiet.
A low rumble reaches my ears, and my attention snaps to the sky. A sleek private jet cuts through the late afternoon light, banking toward the runway like it owns the place. My pulse ticks up, not because I’m impressed, but because the last time I saw a plane this close, it was on the news.
The jet lands smoothly, rolling in with the kind of confidence that comes from money and maintenance.
The door opens. A set of stairs lowers. And a man appears at the top.
He is big. Not cartoonishly so, but enough that my brain immediately re-categorizes him as “possible weapon.” Broad shoulders.
Solid frame. The kind of posture that looks like he could stand still in a hurricane and the hurricane would apologize.
He pauses, scanning the airstrip with a slow, controlled sweep.
I’ve met a military man before. They always have tells.
The eyes that never stop checking exits.
The stillness that feels like coiled wire.
The way their hands hang loose but ready, like they’re on friendly terms with violence.
This man looks like all of that, plus a smirk that doesn’t belong on someone who takes danger seriously.
He starts down the steps. Black T-shirt.
Tactical pants. Boots that look expensive in the way that means “durable,” not “fashion.” When he hits the pavement, the wind catches his hair.
Dark. Short. Slightly tousled like he doesn’t waste time with mirrors.
He turns his head, and the sunlight hits his face.
Sharp jaw. Light stubble. A scar near his cheekbone that looks old enough to have a story and new enough to still be rude about it.
And his eyes. Omg, they’re gorgeous and dark. They’re the kind of eyes that say, I have done things, and I have receipts.
He spots me. I know he spots me because the air changes. My skin prickles, like my body recognizes him before my brain finishes being an idiot. His mouth curves, not quite a smile. It’s more like a warning. A delicious warning.
He walks toward me, and I try very hard to keep my chin up and my knees from getting weak.
I refuse to be the woman who swoons on an airstrip. I have principles. I have dignity. I’ve been run off the road and now my life is in danger. None of this is romantic.
He stops a few feet away, looking me over in a way that feels less like appreciation and more like assessment. “Rowan Sands?” he asks. His voice is lower than I expect. Smooth. Warm in a way that doesn’t match his eyes.
“Depends,” I say. “Are you here to kill me or keep me alive? Because I’d like to dress differently depending on the vibe.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “That your attempt at humor or a threat assessment?”
“Both. I’m multi-talented.”
He shifts his stance, and I catch the subtle movement of his gaze again. He’s watching the cars, the terminal, the perimeter fence. He’s not just looking at me. He’s looking through me. “Sinclair Hawthorne,” he says, like that should mean something.
It doesn’t. But my mother’s tone when she said his name did. Like she’d reached into the bottom drawer where she keeps her most terrifying options and pulled out a person.
I tilt my head. “Sinclair. Like the gas station?”
His eyes narrow. “Like the man who’s getting you out of here.” Ah. Great. He has humor too. It’s just locked behind a wall of irritation.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, then add, “I expected you to be older.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second, then back to my eyes. “I expected you to be less… shiny.”
I blink. “Shiny?”
He gestures vaguely at my entire existence. “Sunglasses. Jewelry. Bag that should have its own security detail.”
I glance down at my tote. “It’s called self-care.”
“It’s called a beacon.”
“Wow,” I say, slow and sweet. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You want special, buy a cupcake. I’m here because someone tried to run you off the road.”
“I handled it.”
He studies me, and I get the distinct feeling he’s mentally cataloging every bruise I don’t have. “Handling it isn’t the goal,” he says. “Surviving it is.”
My throat tightens, and I hate that he’s right. I also hate that he looks like that while being right.
I lift my chin. “So what’s the plan, Sinclair Hawthorne?”
“Sin,” he corrects.
“That’s unfortunate,” I say. “I was going to call you Mr. Hawthorne like a Victorian governess.”
His eyes go flat. “Rowan.”
“What?”
He leans in just a fraction. “You can keep trying to be cute. It won’t change the fact that you’re coming with me. And you’re going to do what I say.”
I laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I will throw my phone at his forehead. “You were hired by my mother,” I say. “Not by me.”
He holds my gaze. “Your mother wants you alive.”
“So do I.”
“Then cooperate.”
My pulse hops again, irritatingly, because the word “cooperate” coming out of his mouth feels like an invitation to a fight I might enjoy.
Enemies to lovers? No, thank you. I’ve read that book. It ends with me making compromises and him learning emotions. I do not have time for character development while someone is trying to murder me.
Still, my mouth opens before my brain can rein it in. “You always this bossy or is it a special treat because I’m a damsel in designer sunglasses?”
His gaze flicks to the runway behind me. “Damsels don’t investigate organized crime.”
“Finally,” I mutter. “Someone sees my depth.”
He looks back at me, and the slightest hint of amusement returns. “You’re going to be a problem.”
“And you’re going to be a migraine,” I shoot back. “Look at us. Destined.”
His jaw ticks. That’s a point for me. “Bag,” he says, holding out his hand.
“I can hold my own bag.”
“I’m taking it.”
“No.”
He gives me a look that could make a grown man confess to tax fraud.
“I’m not handing my stuff to a stranger on an airstrip,” I say. “I’ve seen too many documentaries.”
“Rowan,” he warns.
“I can carry it. I have arms.”
He steps in, reaches for the strap, and I tighten my grip. Our fingers brush. A stupid spark zips up my arm like my body has decided this is a meet-cute and not a hostage situation. I glare at my own nerve endings.
“Let go,” he says.
“Make me.”
He doesn’t yank. He doesn’t wrestle. He simply leans closer, voice low enough that it feels like he’s talking directly into my bloodstream. “Fine,” he says. “Walk with it. But if you get snatched because you needed to win a tote-bag standoff, I’m going to be annoyed.”
“Oh no,” I whisper. “Anything but your annoyance.”
His eyes lock on mine, and for a beat, the wind dies and the noise fades and it’s just us standing too close with too much tension over a bag strap. Then he steps back like he’s the one with the self-control, and I’m the one who’s about to do something reckless.
He gestures toward a black SUV waiting with the engine running. “Move.”
“Bossy,” I say, but I start walking.