Chapter 18
Twenty-Four Hours
JULIETTE
Dawn had not broken yet, but the deck had already gone blue and cold.
I sat on the edge of the deck in his discarded t-shirt, the hem hitting mid-thigh, a heavy ceramic mug between my palms. The heat from the coffee was the only thing grounding my body.
The cool air on my bare legs made the shirt feel like a borrowed skin.
Beside me, Nick was a silhouette against the rising silver of the horizon. He was half dressed, cargoes on, boots laced, no shirt. He wasn’t looking at the view. He was stripping his sidearm in silence, fingers sure, movements compact, attention narrowed to steel and spring and habit.
The snick-click of the slide cut through the quiet, all metal and purpose, and my coffee suddenly felt like an accessory from another life.
Muscle memory, I thought. Steel, sequence, control. His hands knew the sequence better than the morning did.
The weight of what we’d admitted without saying it still sat beneath my ribs. The oil-slick shine of the slide caught at the edge of my vision.
The phone vibrated against the teak table between us, face up. The screen bloomed. A notification banner slid into view—Sofia.
[1 New Message].
Nick didn’t flinch or shift his weight. He let the light burn out, the screen returning to black.
"You're not taking that?" I asked.
"Not yet," he said. He didn't offer an explanation, and I didn't ask for one. I wasn't his dispatcher.
The second vibration hit three seconds later.
Nick didn't check the screen before reaching for it, setting the slide down to pick up the phone on the second vibration.
His thumb moved in a single, fluid burst to type a response, his posture never breaking as he handled the intrusion without a single glance in my direction to see if I was annoyed.
Sofia, then. The only person allowed to breach Nick Mercer before coffee.
The silence held for exactly four seconds. Then my own phone screamed for attention.
Summer [Incoming Call].
I tapped the screen, the blue light of the display cutting through the morning sky. I didn't move away from the table.
"It’s after midnight in Maris Key, Summer," I said, my voice softening just enough for her to hear the shift. "You should be sleeping."
"I’m getting there. Just wanted to make sure you had the final numbers for the acquisitions meeting." My sister’s voice crackled over the line. “You’re still on the 9:30 out tomorrow, right?”
A small silence passed between us, the kind Summer never wasted unless she was deciding how hard to press. "Everything okay over there? You sound... distant. Or maybe just quiet."
The snick-click of the slide paused.
"The connection is thin, Summer. It’s a big continent."
"Right. Well. Try to get some actual sleep tonight. Brynn’s bringing the good coffee. You’ll need it. Daisy will pick you up at the airport. See you at the office?"
Daisy. Perfect. Competent, cheerful, and not one of my sisters. I might make it from baggage claim to Maris Key without anyone conducting an emotional autopsy before coffee.
"I’ll be there. Goodnight, Sum."
I ended the call. When Nick finally looked up, the sidearm still rested loose in his hands, his gaze steady on mine.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," I confirmed.
The word was a deadline.
I stood and walked back into the open expanse of the suite. My suitcase sat on the luggage rack—a black Tumi abyss at the foot of the bed. Crisp white shirts and tailored trousers filled it—the uniform of a woman who knew exactly where she belonged, but in this room, they looked like a costume.
The silk blazer came next, cold beneath my fingers. I folded it carefully, edge to edge, pressing each seam flat until my knuckles ached.
Nick moved past me to retrieve his khaki shirt from the floor.
He didn’t rush. He simply bent, picked it up, and paused beside the luggage rack while I folded another shirt into a precise white square.
“Juliette.”
My hands stopped. The blazer went still beneath my palms. He stood close enough that the clean cotton in my suitcase felt absurd. Bare chest. Laced boots. Sidearm secured.
His gaze dropped to the suitcase, then came back to me. “Last night doesn’t get packed away with the rest of it,” he said.
It was the closest thing to a hand held out, and I had no idea what to do with it.
The bathroom gave me thirty seconds and a mirror I regretted looking into. My hair had slipped from its pins, one dark strand stuck to my cheek. My mouth looked too soft at the edges. Two faint marks sat low on my throat, exactly where a collar would not hide them.
Cold water hit my skin. Nothing about Nick Mercer washed away. I only needed enough composure to walk back into the room and look him in the eye.
By the time I walked back out, I was buttoned up. Nick stood near the entrance, his shirt on but not yet fastened, holster strapped over his ribs like a secondary skeleton. He checked the chamber.
The ranger’s uniform was coming back together, one piece at a time.
His gaze lifted to meet mine, holding a level of focus that wasn't distant so much as it was devastatingly steady.
“Ready?” he asked.
I reached for my notebook. The leather was scuffed, its edges softened from a week of grit and heat. I tucked it under my arm like a shield.
“Yes.”
He waited while I stepped past him. He didn’t move to widen the path. His shoulder stayed inches from mine, and somehow that was worse than being touched.
Outside, the morning had sharpened. I followed him toward the jeep, my boots crunching over the dry earth. He opened the passenger door, a silent fact of our daily choreography, and I climbed in.
“You’re behind schedule,” I said. It was a reflex, the only survival instinct I had left that still functioned under pressure.
“I’m never behind schedule, Wilder.” He shifted into gear, the tires spitting gravel as we pulled away from the suite. “I’m not rushing you.”
Acacia trees blurred past the window, a smear of gold and thorn. Nick drove with one hand on the wheel, his attention moving between the track, the radio, and the ridge line. Every few seconds, it came back to me.
A little more than a day remained. One final rotation of the earth before the world expected me to step back into it as though South Africa had been a temporary deviation.
He didn’t drive straight to the main entrance. He banked the jeep left toward the staff quarters and pulled up in front of a corrugated-roof cabin, leaving the engine idling.
“Two minutes,” he said, already stepping out. “I need a clean shirt.”
He looked back, just once, leaving the choice to me.
I stayed in the passenger seat. The screen door groaned on its hinges as he disappeared inside, a rusted, practical sound cutting through the low vibration of the engine.
His porch held a single chair and a pair of worn boots, the wood scent of a small stack of firewood tangling with the morning air.
A chipped ceramic mug sat on the rail beside topography maps weighted with a smooth stone—a space with no excess, no performance, and nothing arranged for anyone else’s comfort.
Everything could be packed, carried, or left behind.
Nick came back in a crisp olive uniform, the ranger patches stiff at his shoulders. He rolled his sleeves as he climbed in, bringing woodsmoke and mint that replaced the musk of the suite.
“Still with me?” he asked, his hand hovering over the gear shift.
My fingers tightened around the notebook in my lap. “For one more day.”
The corner of his mouth shifted, but his eyes stayed on mine. Then he put the jeep in gear.
We pulled into the lodge’s gravel circle, the veranda already bright with coffee cups, linen napkins, and people pretending the morning belonged to them.
My hand went to my collar in one smoothing pass. My spine straightened before anyone could notice it had slipped.
I had twenty-four hours left, and no strategy for leaving a man who had made staying feel possible.