Chapter 10 #2
When she made a soft sound against his mouth and let him deepen his kiss, something in him wanted to never stop. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, holding on, and he gathered her in, kissed her slower, like they had all the time in the world.
He could stay right here. With her.
And yet . . .
He finally lifted his head. Met her eyes. “I know everyone thinks we’re married, but . . .” He drew in a breath. “Some of church still lives inside me.”
She had moved her hands to his chest and now smiled. “Calm down, Bugsy. The Great Pillow Wall of Fiji still stands.”
Yeah, maybe that did calm him down, just a little.
But every part of him wanted to close that distance again. “I’m not so sure it’s impenetrable,” he said. “So I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“The sofa.” She glanced at it—comfortable enough, but clearly not designed for a man his size. “I suppose it’s better than a wicker love seat.”
He held her gaze. “I told you I was a safe man. I meant it.”
Her expression shifted, the amusement fading into something softer. More serious. “I know you did,” she said quietly. “That’s why I’m not arguing.”
She moved toward the bedroom, then stopped at the doorway. Looked back at him.
“Dakota?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” A pause. “For listening. For not giving up on the bag. For . . .” She trailed off, shook her head. “Just thank you.”
“Get some sleep,” he said. “Early departure tomorrow.”
She nodded and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door most of the way—leaving it cracked, a sliver of light visible, the sound of her moving around as she got ready for bed faintly audible.
Dakota grabbed the blanket from the armchair and settled onto the sofa.
But he didn’t have a hope of sleeping. Instead, he lay there, blanket pulled up, staring through the terrace doors at the Hunter Valley stars.
They were scattered across the darkness like questions, countless and unanswerable.
Faith means trusting what you don’t know.
It sounded like a flaw. A limitation. The thing that made belief impossible for people like him—analysts, strategists, men who wanted proof before they could let go of control.
But lying here, watching the stars, he wondered if it might be something else entirely.
Not a flaw. A choice.
He thought about Jayden. About the story she’d told him—Skylar, the Bible, the faith that had died with her sister. About the vulnerability in her voice when she’d said I was just the other daughter.
And of course, Ham’s warning still circled his brain. Gender-neutral name. Stay sharp. The profile that fit her too well. The doubts he couldn’t quite silence.
He couldn’t prove she was innocent. Couldn’t verify her story. Couldn’t know for certain that she wasn’t exactly what his heart feared.
Maybe faith wasn’t about knowing. Maybe it was about choosing to trust anyway.
He didn’t pray. Not exactly. But as he looked at the stars, something in his chest loosened. Something that had been tight for years.
Help me find the truth. Whatever I’m supposed to find.
Help me be the man she needs me to be.
It wasn’t quite a prayer.
But it was close.
Dakota closed his eyes, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself believe that God was still in this. That he wasn’t fighting alone, even when the answers didn’t come. That whatever the morning brought, Someone had already been there, working good out of it.
That maybe—just maybe—faith wasn’t the enemy of certainty.
Maybe it was its own kind of strength.
Dakota Rivers was going to be the death of her—and not in the way she’d originally suspected.
Jayden stood in the Westin Melbourne Hotel lobby, watching her fake husband carry Mags Winston’s bag to the luggage cart.
He hadn’t been asked. Mags was seventy-two and the bag was heavy and Dakota had simply taken it from her, made some joke that earned a delighted laugh, and now he was organizing it among the others with the easy competence of a man who helped people without thinking about it.
This was the problem. This was exactly how it happened—you started seeing the good in someone. You started wanting to believe. And then you missed the knife until it was already in your back.
But Dakota wasn’t Ian. Dakota had saved her life on the reef. Watched over her through the allergic reaction.
And had been a gentleman last night when his eyes and kiss had said he might want more.
She had trusted Ian. That was what had cost her everything.
So what did that mean? That she could trust Dakota? Or that he was simply better at the performance?
Time to have some faith, to echo the conversation from last night, right?
The luggage cart was a riot of color now. After the bag confusion in the Hunter Valley, Bonnie had distributed ribbons and luggage tags—bright pink for the Winstons, yellow for Gerald, green for the Novaks. Dakota’s bag sported a blue ribbon.
Hers was nowhere to be found.
“Everyone!” Bonnie’s voice cut through the lobby like the woman should rightly be dressed in all pink, sporting a cruise-director sash. “Wonderful news! We have some new arrivals joining us for the rest of the tour!”
She gestured to a middle-aged couple. “Meet Ellis and Devin Hart. Their flight was delayed in the storm and they just caught up now.”
The couple waved.
“And Howard’s son is joining us,” she said just as Howard Brennan stepped through the front entrance with a young man at his side.
Early twenties. Athletic build. Designer clothes that probably cost more than Jayden’s entire travel wardrobe (which was saying a lot, given the cost of gift-shop clothing). And eyes—
Eyes that scanned the lobby the moment he entered. Something about him seemed . . . professional. Military, even.
Spectre.
Maybe not—but Jayden’s instincts snapped to attention. Especially when Howard said, “Everyone, this is my son, Blake.”
Howard beamed with paternal pride. “He’s joining us for the rest of the tour. Finally got some time off work.”
Blake. Suddenly the world was awash with gender-neutral names.
“What do you do, Blake?” Gerald asked cheerfully, binoculars still hanging around his neck from the afternoon’s bird-watching expedition.
“I work event security. Had a gig in Newcastle.” Blake’s smile was thin, practiced. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Boring corporate stuff.”
Jayden caught Dakota’s eye across the lobby. He’d noticed it too—she could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his gaze.
Interesting.
The lobby buzzed with introductions and small talk. Riley Stewart drifted over to welcome Blake, her smile bright and friendly. Vic Simons hovered near the edge of the group, wringing his hands and looking vaguely overwhelmed by the new arrivals.
Jayden positioned herself where she could watch Blake collect his luggage from Bonnie.
He grabbed a black duffel first. Then his hand reached for a second bag.
Gray canvas. Red tag.
Jayden’s heart stopped. Wait. Was that the bag with the rifle components? How had it suddenly shown up again?
Except, he’d said he’d had a gig in Newcastle. Where he could have shown up at the airport to grab the sniper bag? Then why show up here? Although . . . the tour could be an easy way to get into Sydney, to access the Opera House.
Blake picked up the bag and headed for the elevator.
She was moving before she could think.
Dakota fell into step beside her. “What’s up?”
“I think that’s my bag.” She pointed at Blake’s bag.
“Your bag? Really?”
“No, I mean—the one that isn’t mine . . .” And right then, she nearly gave it away. Nearly spat out “the one with a sniper rifle.” That would have been brilliant. So much for keeping her cover. She stopped.
Dakota looked at her. “Jayden?”
She had to follow Blake. What if he was Spectre?
And what to do with Dakota?
The elevator doors opened. But Blake didn’t move. Just stood there looking at the bag. Then he crouched and looked at the ribbon.
“Oh—this isn’t my bag.” He looked genuinely confused, annoyed. “Shoot. I thought they’d found my dad’s missing luggage, but apparently not. Wrong tag.” He turned around. “Wait, is this your bag?”
She stared at him, suddenly nonplussed, but yeah, that seemed like a good reason to be stalking him, right?
“Yeah,” Dakota said and reached for it. “Sorry, we should have grabbed it.”
Blake pushed the bag toward them. “Too many gray bags. Dad’s been looking for his since Fiji.” Then he got on the elevator.
Jayden stared at the bag.
“Ready to reconsider the cotton underwear?” Dakota said.
“That’s not funny.”
But what had just happened?
“We leave for Phillip Island in an hour,” Bonnie said from the lobby. “Bundle up. The viewing platforms can get quite chilly after sunset. And remember—no flash photography! The penguins don’t like it!”
“Penguins?” Dakota said.
“I’m off to the gift shop,” said Jayden.
An hour later, she settled next to Dakota on the bus, wearing a puffer jacket, a wool hat, mittens, and wool socks. “Feels ridiculous to dress for Siberia when three days ago we were diving.”
“Remember,” Dakota said, dressed in his own purchased puffer and a blue wool hat that only made his eyes deeper, “the only thing between the southern coast of Australia and Antarctica is the ocean.”
“I think Tasmania might have something to say about that,” Lily Winston said, looking a little less dour than usual. She sat next to her mother but glanced at Blake across the aisle and grinned.
“I heard the penguin parade is the highlight of the Melbourne leg,” said Anna Novak. “Hundreds of penguins waddling across the beach after the sun goes down.”
The brochure made it sound a little more magical: As evening falls on Phillip Island, hundreds of little penguins emerge from the sea and waddle across the beach toward their burrows.
Visitors watch quietly as the world’s smallest penguins return home at dusk, a gentle and unforgettable wildlife experience set against the Southern Ocean.
Jayden tucked the brochure away. Yeah, she should be focused on the mission. But frankly, her bag had to be long gone.
And the one with the rifle was locked in their room.