Chapter Two
Rhodes
I'd survived sandstorms in Afghanistan, cramped transport vehicles, and a ditch outside Kandahar with incoming fire overhead.
That goddam daybed almost broke me.
The mattress couldn't have been more than six feet long. My legs hung off the end, the thin padding offered about as much support as cardboard, and every time I shifted position—which was often, given the cramping in my calves—the metal frame creaked loud enough to wake the dead.
I'd gotten maybe two hours of actual sleep.
At five-thirty Wednesday morning, I gave up, extracted myself from the torture device masquerading as furniture, and made coffee.
The house was quiet around me. I stood at Presley's kitchen window, mug in hand, and mentally reviewed the security situation.
No alarm system. Basic locks on doors. That four-foot fence in the backyard that anyone could vault in under three seconds.
The hedge along the side yard that provided perfect cover for someone wanting to access her windows undetected.
All fixable. I'd install cameras and motion lights today, upgrade the locks, add an alarm system by week's end.
My jaw tightened. Someone had thrown a brick through her studio window yesterday. Someone had left a threatening note the day before that. Someone was targeting her, escalating, and I needed to find them before they did worse. Before they hurt someone.
"Rhodes?"
I turned. Presley stood in the kitchen doorway in yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt, her strawberry blonde hair loose around her shoulders. No makeup, face bare, hair still mussed from sleep.
The thought hit before I could stop it: she was beautiful like this.
Professional. I needed to stay professional.
"Morning," I said. "Coffee's fresh."
"Thank you." She moved to the cabinet, pulled down a mug. "Did you sleep okay?"
I took a drink instead of answering immediately. "I've managed worse."
She turned to look at me, really look, and I could see her register the shadows under my eyes, the tight set of my shoulders.
"What time do you need to be at the studio?"
"Seven. The glass crew is coming back to install the permanent window."
"I'll head over with you, do a security sweep while they work."
She set down her mug, studied me. "You look exhausted. How tall are you?"
"Six-three."
Her face fell. "And that daybed is six feet long. I should've realized." She crossed her arms. "I have a king-sized bed that's actually long enough for a human being. You're welcome to share it."
For a moment I just stared at her. Sharing a bed with Presley Danforth. Her hair spread across the pillow. Those curves barely concealed by whatever she slept in.
Tactical reasoning said it made sense. Sound logic said I'd be more alert and effective if I actually got some sleep.
Every other part of me said this was a spectacularly bad idea.
"We're both adults," she added quickly. "Ground rules—stay on your side, no touching."
"All right," I heard myself say. "No touching. Keep it professional."
"Professional," she echoed.
Neither of us moved. I could hear her breathing, see her pulse at her throat. Three feet between us and it might as well have been three inches.
I broke eye contact first, drained my coffee. "I'll get ready."
THE WINDOW REPLACEMENT went smoothly. The crew arrived at seven sharp. They had the new glass installed and sealed by seven forty-five.
I spent the time checking Crown & Grace from top to bottom—every lock, every window, every access point. The front door and side entrance both needed better deadbolts. The back door that led to the shared parking area was a security nightmare.
Presley stood in her office doorway, watching me work. "What's the verdict?"
"Front and side locks are adequate. Back door needs upgrading. I'll handle it this afternoon." I pulled out my phone, made a note. "You mentioned Garden Gate Florals—next door in the complex—shares the back parking area?"
"Yes, Ruth-Ellen Briggs owns it. The whole row of businesses shares that lot."
"I'll introduce myself, make sure she's keeping an eye out for anything unusual."
Presley's expression softened. "Thank you. For all of this."
"What I'm here for."
Her first client arrived at nine—a girl named Brynlee Sutherland, maybe fourteen, working on her vocal piece for the Texas Star competition next weekend. I stayed in the main coaching room, positioned where I could keep an eye on the door and windows while staying out of the way.
And found myself watching Presley instead.
The way she moved—graceful, confident. Fitted dress, heels, hair and makeup perfect. Polished.
The patience in her voice when she corrected Brynlee's phrasing, showing her how to breathe, where to place emphasis. Then Presley demonstrated, singing the verse herself.
Her voice filled the studio. Rich, powerful, effortless.
Gray had mentioned she'd competed in pageants, that singing had been her talent.
But hearing it—watching her perform—was something else entirely.
The way she commanded the space. The emotion she poured into every note.
I'd heard good singers. This was different.
I caught myself staring at her. The way she moved, completely unselfconscious, lost in the music.
I checked my phone while Presley wrapped up with Brynlee. Email from Mae had come through overnight—must have missed the notification earlier during the security sweep. Quick work. She'd pulled preliminary data on all three suspects.
A woman—had to be the mother—arrived right on schedule, thanked Presley, and left with the girl.
Rhodes - preliminary intel on your three suspects:
Landon Barrett: Credit card activity shows recent purchases in Valor Springs area (gas stations, convenience stores) on dates aligning with both incidents. No arrest record.
Blythe Tanner: Financially desperate. Large cash withdrawals in past month ($3K+, unusual pattern). Made public threats about Presley "ruining her business."
Tiffany Hammond: Recently returned to area. Social media shows continued obsession with Presley. Unemployed, unclear income source.
Assessment: All three remain viable suspects. Insufficient evidence to charge anyone.
- Mae
I studied the information, running tactical assessments in my head.
Landon was looking good for this. Possessive ex-boyfriends rarely took rejection well, and the Valor Springs purchases put him in the area on the right dates. No proof yet, but my instincts said watch him close. The type who escalated when he didn't get what he wanted.
Financial desperation made people do stupid things.
Three grand in cash withdrawals suggested Blythe Tanner was hiding something—or buying something.
But would a rival coach escalate to physical threats?
Felt more like professional jealousy than genuine danger.
Still, desperate people were unpredictable.
Five years was a long time to hold a grudge over a pageant disqualification.
But some people nursed resentment like it was oxygen.
Tiffany Hammond's continued social media obsession with Presley suggested she hadn't moved on.
Unemployed with unclear income meant time and possibly motivation. Worth monitoring.
I forwarded the email to Valor Springs PD. Knew they wouldn't do much without proof, but it was documented.
"Everything okay?"
I looked up. Presley stood there, concern in those striking green eyes of hers.
"Mae's preliminary intel came through. All three suspects are still in play." I gestured to her office. "Can we talk privately?"
She led me inside, closed the door. I showed her Mae's email.
"So we still don't know who it is."
"Not yet. But we're building a picture." I pocketed my phone. "You have more clients this afternoon?"
"Two more sessions before lunch. Then Addison at three-thirty."
"Right." I'd get these kids' names straight eventually. "I'll be here."
AT TWELVE-THIRTY, WE deployed to The Grill for lunch.
The place was packed—every booth and table occupied, exactly as I'd hoped.
The Grill had that authentic small-town diner feel—red vinyl booths, laminate tables, the smell of burgers and coffee heavy in the air.
Around us, locals filled every seat, and I could already see heads turning, conversations pausing as people registered Presley and me together.
Maximum visibility for our cover story. The hostess was a friendly woman in her fifties who lit up when she saw Presley.
"Presley! Wonderful to see you, honey." Her gaze shifted to me, curiosity bright. "And who's this?"
"Rhodes Foster. My boyfriend." Presley's smile was warm and natural. If I didn't know better, I'd believe it myself.
"Nice to meet you, Rhodes. Let me get you two seated."
She led us to a center booth. Maximum visibility. I let my hand rest on the table palm-up. Presley's fingers laced through mine without hesitation. Heat shot up my arm, settled in my chest.
I could already see heads turning, conversations pausing. The woman two booths over had her phone out—probably texting half the town.
Perfect.
We ordered. Burgers, fries, sweet tea. While we waited for the food, Presley traced her thumb absently across my knuckles. The touch sent another wave of heat up my arm.
"Rhodes Foster?"
I looked up. A man in his sixties stood by our booth, weathered hands and a face that said he'd spent his life working outdoors. "Thought that was you. Hank Morrison. I've got a small spread south of town—saw you compete in team roping years back. Hell of a run."
"Appreciate that." I kept my voice easy, relaxed. "That was a good day."
"You still competing?"
"Not in years. Went into the Marines after that, then business consulting."
Hank's eyes went to where my hand held Presley's. "Well, looks like you're doing just fine for yourself. You take good care of our girl here."
"Planning on it."
After he left, Presley leaned in slightly. "That just went out to about twenty people."