Chapter 2 #3
A group of men clustered near the bar—loud, laughing—and she spotted Coco’s hockey husband, Wyatt, gesturing wildly again. The men seemed related, with their similar features. And of course Ford stood with them, also smiling, so she guessed it might be his family.
The Jones, Inc., team had claimed the far side of the space. Britta recognized some of them from New York City—the big guy who was the boss. Hamilton? And a few other ex-military types.
Yeah, Coco wasn’t wrong—Britta might actually be at the safest wedding ever.
And then her gaze landed on the man standing with them, the man from the airport.
West.
He’d changed. Showered, probably, based on the way his hair was darker at the roots, still damp.
Fresh T-shirt—navy blue, no rips, fitted enough to show the shoulders underneath.
Clean cargo shorts. The same flip-flops, but everything else screamed I went back to my cottage and took thirty minutes to reset.
Their eyes met across the tiki bar.
Time slowed. Stuttered. Made everything else fade into background noise while her brain tried to process what her body was already screaming.
Run.
Hide.
Disappear.
Anything except stand here while he looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read—surprise? recognition? anger? hurt?—and she had absolutely no idea what to say or how to explain or whether he even wanted an explanation.
“Right. I did tell you West was here,” Scarlett said quietly beside her. “You okay?”
“Yes.” The word came out strangled. Britta cleared her throat. Tried again. “No. I should—I need to—”
“Breathe first,” Emberly suggested.
Britta’s feet itched to run. Get back to the cottage. Hide. Avoid him for the next three days and hope he never wanted an explanation.
Except she couldn’t do that.
She’d come here to stop being afraid. To stop hiding. To stop letting fear and protocols and other people’s expectations dictate every move she made.
She’d come here to be free. Which meant taking responsibility for the horror event at the airport.
West said something to the guy beside him, who glanced toward Britta, then back at West, and then shrugged. West set down his drink. Straightened. Sighed.
He was going to come over to her. She knew it in her bones.
And she had no idea what to say except I’m sorry, and that felt entirely inadequate for getting someone taken down by federal agents.
“Britta?” Coco’s voice. Concerned. “You okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t make her lungs work properly. Couldn’t stop staring at West.
She’d come here for three days of freedom.
But standing here, watching West decide whether to walk toward her or walk away, Britta realized with crushing certainty that real life involved consequences.
And she was about to face hers.
So, this was fun.
Like a completely capable, emotionally competent adult, West chose to avoid her.
He caught the football Knox lobbed his direction, pivoted in the sand, and fired it back with enough force to make his point.
The hanging bulbs around the perimeter of the beach area puddled light all the way to the shore, pushing back the night.
The wind brushed through the tall palms, the air smelling of paradise.
He was here to celebrate his friend’s wedding. Not deal with the president’s daughter who’d gotten him taken down by federal agents approximately four hours ago.
The problem was, he couldn’t stop glancing at her.
She stood at the edge of the tiki bar with the women—Scarlett, Emberly, the Marshall wives—champagne glass in her hand, blue sundress catching the tiki-torch light. She’d changed. Showered, probably. Let herself be blonde again instead of hiding under that terrible black wig.
But to his eye she looked miserable.
West caught another pass from North. Threw it to Skeet. Focused on the game and absolutely did not think about the way she kept glancing toward the beach, then looking away like she was building up courage for something.
Not his problem.
He’d showered. Changed into clean clothes—navy T-shirt, fresh cargo shorts.
An attempt at resetting his brain after the airport disaster.
He’d told Ham the whole story. Endured the knowing looks from North and Dakota.
Survived Skeet’s commentary about making friends with federal agents one tackle at a time.
He’d done his processing. Made his peace with it. Decided to let it go.
Except she was standing over there looking like she was about to either cry or run, and West’s protective instincts—the ones that had put him on the ground in the first place—were firing again.
“You going to talk to her?” North asked, catching West’s latest throw.
“No.”
“You keep looking at her.”
“I’m aware of my surroundings. Occupational habit.”
“That’s one way to describe it.” Skeet grinned. “For what it’s worth, she looks more miserable than you do. Which is saying something.”
“I’m not miserable.”
“You’re playing football with the enthusiasm of someone at a funeral.”
“It’s been a day.”
“Getting taken down will do that.”
Dakota jogged over, retrieving the ball that had sailed past Skeet’s reach. “Is that the girl from the airport? The president’s daughter? The one who got you in trouble with the Secret Service?”
“She didn’t get me in trouble. I got myself in trouble by interfering with a federal protection detail.”
“Semantics.” Dakota threw the ball to North. “She’s pretty though. You should talk to her.”
“I should stay about fifty yards away from her and her security complications.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
West caught North’s toss and ignored him.
She did look lost. And every time he looked at her, his brain supplied unhelpful observations like She’s alone and She’s uncomfortable and…
Not. His. Problem.
He’d spent a decade building a life where other people’s problems didn’t become his problems. Where he could walk away from complications before they attached themselves to his freedom.
The president’s daughter was the definition of complications.
North threw the ball. West caught it. Turned to throw it back.
His eyes found her again.
She’d set down her champagne. Was talking to Coco about something. And of course, right then, she looked up. Their eyes met across the distance.
West looked away. Threw the football to Skeet.
This was ridiculous.
He was a grown man. Former Marine. Explosives expert. Private-security professional who’d operated in war zones and handled threat assessments for Fortune 500 executives.
He could handle one uncomfortable conversation with a woman who’d lied about her name.
Except uncomfortable conversations weren’t the problem. The problem was that talking to her—acknowledging her, engaging with her—felt like stepping toward something he’d spent years running from.
Systems. Protocols. The kind of life where duty owned you and freedom became a memory.
She was all of that to the extreme.
“I’m going for a walk,” West announced.
“You’re running away,” Dakota corrected.
“Tactical retreat.”
“Still running.”
West handed off the football and headed down the beach toward the water, where the darkness provided excellent cover and he could think without everyone watching.
His feet dug into the creamy softness of the sand, the ocean loud enough to drown out the music and laughter from the resort. Stars cast overhead.
He’d intervened at the airport because she’d looked like she needed help.
Now she looked like she needed help again.
Terrific. Everything in him said Turn around.
He had rules—Don’t get involved. Don’t get attached. Don’t stick around long enough to be owned.
It had worked for years, thank you very much.
But yet…West turned around.
She was still standing at the bar. Still looking miserable. Still—
Their eyes met again.
She didn’t look away this time.
Neither did he.
And for a second, her gaze threaded deep, thrummed inside him.
Terrific.
He headed toward the tiki bar, hearing I just wanted to go to a wedding.
The women around her noticed him approaching and moved away.
West stopped in front of her. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Her voice came out steadier than her hands looked.
“So.” He crossed his arms. Not aggressive. Just…guarded.
“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out fast. Practiced, maybe.
Or just desperate. “About the airport. About lying. About getting you tackled. About all of it. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.
I should have been honest from the start.
I should have—” She sighed. “Never mind. Let me buy you a drink. Make it up to you. Please.”
“They’re free. It’s all-inclusive.”
“Then let’s pretend.” Her voice shifted. Lighter. Trying for humor. “Pretend I’m buying you a very expensive drink to apologize for being a complete disaster of a human being.”
Aw, and he couldn’t hold back a small smile.
“What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Water,” West said. “No ice.”
“Just water?”
“Just water.”
“You don’t drink?”
“No.”
“At all?”
“At all.”
“Can I ask why?”
West accepted the water bottle from the bartender. “It softens my edges. I like my edges.”
She blinked. Then that almost-smile appeared. “You look like a surfer. I wouldn’t have pegged you for someone worried about soft edges.”
“I’m on vacation.” He gestured at his casual clothes, his flip-flops, the general beach-bum aesthetic he’d been cultivating. “Doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention.”
“Fair enough.” She grabbed a bottle of water too. Held it up. “So what do we drink to? Forgiveness? Peaceful coexistence? Not getting you tackled again?”
“All of the above.”
He gestured toward a path that led away from the main bar area, through palm trees, toward relative privacy. They walked.
The music faded. The ocean got louder. West focused on the path, the tiki torches creating pools of light.
“I gotta know,” he said finally. “How’d you do it? Lose your detail.”
“Coffee shop.”
“I’m going to need more detail than that.”