CHAPTER 1 #3
A sigh. Then, “When did you figure it out?”
“When one of the agents introduced himself by slamming his knee in my spine.” West touched his scraped elbow. Still stinging. “You know. Context clues.”
“You intervened.”
“She looked like she needed help.”
“Did she ask for help?”
“No.”
“Did she appear to be in immediate danger?”
“Not exactly.”
“So you just decided to insert yourself into a federal protection detail’s operation because—”
“She was running.” The words came out sharper than West intended. “She had this whole disguise thing going on—wig, cheap clothes that didn’t fit right—and these guys were tracking her. It looked wrong. I don’t know—I thought she might be a human-trafficking victim.”
Ham grunted. “Okay, I give you that.”
West watched a couple on bicycles pedal past, baskets full of groceries. “Yeah, well, I wish I’d figured it out before my face met the pavement.”
Ham was quiet for a moment. “I’m a little surprised that she ran from her security after New York,” Ham said finally.
“What?”
“Britta White. She was at the UN youth summit when the Bratva made their move. Emberly saved her life. You were there for the debrief.”
He had been there. Standing in the back of the room while Emberly walked them through the attack, the infiltration, the moment she’d taken down three armed men to protect a room full of targets that included two princesses and the President’s daughter.
West had looked at the photos. Seen Britta White’s face— polished, wearing that careful smile people wore when they’d just survived something terrible and were trying to pretend they were fine.
He should have recognized her today.
Why hadn’t he recognized her?
“She didn’t look like the President’s daughter. At least the one I remember from her pictures.”
“I’m sure that was the point,” Ham said.
The Uber inched forward maybe twenty feet before stopping again behind a family of four trying to cross the street while simultaneously taking a selfie.
“West.” Ham’s voice shifted. Softer. The tone he used when he was about to say something West really didn’t want to hear. “I need to know you’re not going to make this a thing.”
He frowned and wished they were talking face to face. “It’s not a thing.”
“Your voice says otherwise.”
“My shirt says I made a tactical error. Won’t happen again.”
“I think she’s coming to the wedding.”
West stilled. “What?”
“Britta White. She was invited, I know that. Scarlett met her in New York after the attack. Apparently they bonded over something—probably shared trauma—and she invited her. She never RSVP’d, however.”
And they knew why.
“You going to be okay with that?” Ham asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just a gut instinct about the former Marine who wanted to be a Secret Service agent.”
“Sheesh, you know how to go for the jugular.”
“You stepped in between three bodyguards and Britta while wearing flip-flops.”
“Listen, I’m here for a wedding. To celebrate Ford. Drink umbrella drinks, dance badly, hang out with the guys.”
“West.”
“It’s not a big deal. I’ll see her at the wedding, we’ll both ignore it, and I’ll spend the weekend being the fun uncle to everyone’s happiness.”
“The fun uncle?”
“All the guys are bringing plus ones. Someone’s got to maintain the legacy of the single guy.”
Ham laughed. Actually laughed. “That’s your spin on this? You’re proud to be the last man standing?”
“It’s not a spin. It’s a lifestyle choice.”
“It’s lonely.”
“It’s free.”
The Uber driver finally gave up on the main road and turned down a side street. Residential. Quiet. Bougainvillea spilling over fences in explosions of pink and purple. Chickens—actual chickens—wandering across someone’s yard like they owned the place.
“See you at the ferry.” Ham hung up.
West stared at his phone. Then at his torn shirt. Then at the Key West suburbs rolling past his window.
Great. Three days. Rehearsal dinner. Ceremony. Reception. All on a private island with maybe fifty guests total.
He couldn’t avoid her.
Regardless of what he’d told Ham, he couldn’t pretend the airport never happened.
Couldn’t stop wondering why she’d been so desperate to escape that she’d risked fake documents and a disguise that shouldn’t have fooled anyone—and somehow had.
Couldn’t stop wondering if she was okay.
The private dock for Sunset Key Cottages sat at the end of a pier lined with sailboats and yachts that cost more than West had made in his entire Marine Corps career. The boat launch waited—white and sleek, “Sunset Key” painted on the hull in elegant script.
West thanked the Uber driver, grabbed his duffel, and stepped into humidity that felt like walking into a warm, wet blanket.
Another car pulled up and Ham emerged, along with his wife, Signe, and their daughter Aggie. The other families had brought little ones too—RJ and York’s daughter, Wyatt and Coco’s boy—a whole cluster of Marshall grandchildren underfoot.
Ham looked like he’d stepped out of a resort catalog in his linen shirt and expensive sandals.
Signe was elegant in white pants and a silk top, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
Aggie walked behind them, fifteen and completely absorbed in her phone, earbuds in, occasionally looking up to roll her eyes at something her parents said.
“Nice shirt,” Ham said.
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“It’s ripped.”
He’d known since the airport and still hadn’t changed. Right.
“It’s good to see you, West,” Signe said and air-kissed his cheek.
Guests got on the boat—a couple West didn’t recognize, a woman wearing a sun hat the size of a small car, two teenagers who were probably part of the Marshall family based on the family resemblance and that particular brand of wholesome confidence that came from growing up on a ranch.
The boat pulled away from the dock. Five minutes across crystalline water, Key West shrinking behind them, Sunset Key growing larger ahead. Private. Exclusive.
West stood at the railing, letting the wind pull at his hair—he probably needed a fresh cut—trying to let the ocean air clear his head.
Ham moved beside him. Didn’t say anything. Just stood there, arms crossed, watching the island approach.
“She’s not your responsibility,” Ham said quietly.
“I know that.”
“She’s got a full Secret Service detail. Presidential-level protection. She doesn’t need you watching her back.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why do you look like you’re about to jump off this boat and swim back to check on her?”
West’s throat went tight. “I don’t—that’s not—”
“You should have recognized her from New York. You were at that debrief. You saw her photo. So why didn’t you?”
Because he’d been looking at a polished, perfect version. Hair styled. Makeup professional. That practiced smile that said I’m fine; everything’s fine; please stop looking at me like I’m fragile.
In the airport, she’d looked real. Scared. Desperate. Human.
He’d seen the person under the polish, and that person had needed help.
“Ford’s going to be happy to see you. Try to look less like you’re heading into a combat zone and more like you’re at a wedding.”
“Copy that.”
The boat docked. Sunset Key Cottages spread before them—white sand beaches, palm trees swaying, tiki torches already lit even though the sun hadn’t fully set. String lights crisscrossed between trees, casting everything in that soft golden glow that made the whole island look like a postcard.
A walking path led from the dock through tropical landscaping toward the central gathering area. Music drifted from the beach, along with laughter.
They rounded the corner into the central area.
The rest of the Jones, Inc., team had already arrived.
North stood near the firepit—impossible to miss at six-foot-two in his dark T-shirt, cargo shorts, flip-flops. His arm was around Selah—beautiful in a coral sundress, her dark hair loose and wavy, smiling at something Chloe was saying.
Chloe perched on the edge of a chair in a Bohemian sundress, bracelets jangling, that particular energy of someone who lived life in full color and expected everyone else to keep up.
West hadn’t seen her since the warehouse takedown in Bangkok.
Skeet stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, wearing the loudest Hawaiian shirt West had ever seen—parrots and hibiscus flowers in wild colors—and the way he looked at Chloe…
That look said it all—somewhere in the last couple weeks at their Minnesota home base, they’d taken their relationship from action-adventure to something deeper.
Dakota—South—leaned against the bar, arms crossed, looking like he was still running threat assessments even though he was technically on vacation.
Athletic build, that edge that came from spending too long in dangerous places.
The woman he’d met in Australia stood beside him.
He’d known her as Jayden then, code name Lynx; these days Dakota called her TJ—stunning and lethal in cutoff shorts and a tank top, her hair in a messy bun, looking not at all like some secret agent.
So maybe Ham was right.
Just calm down. Enjoy the weekend.
Signe headed straight for Selah and Chloe, joining their conversation with that easy grace that made everyone comfortable.
Aggie found a lounge chair and immediately returned to her phone.
And near the pavilion, talking to a woman in an elegant white dress who could only be the bride, stood Ford Marshall.
West knew him through Scarlett, really, but Ford’s reputation preceded him: Navy SEAL, tough and dependable.
West first met him in Lauchtenland when Ford’s team had helped save the king from a terrorist attack.
Ford had that Montana rancher build—solid, grounded, wearing khaki pants and a linen shirt, smiling, relaxed.
He looked happy. The kind of happy that came from finding the right person.