Chapter 3 #2
But in the distance, near one of the communal firepits, she could see figures. Movement. The orange glow of flames. Could hear voices drifting on the breeze—male, laughing—that easy camaraderie of friends who’d been through enough together to trust the quiet between words.
The Jones, Inc., team. Had to be.
Britta squinted. Tried to make out individuals in the darkness and firelight.
There.
West.
She recognized him even from this distance. Something about his posture. The way he sat slightly away from the group even while being part of it.
And now, oh goodie, she’d turned into a stalker.
Speaking of, she spotted Chávez standing not far away, clearly having relieved Martinez. So much for backup. Although she probably shouldn’t have expected the guy to stay awake twenty-four seven.
Which meant she’d probably see Patterson in the morning.
She should close the doors. Pull the curtains. Go back to her laptop and rewrite that entire Prague scene so the hero looked nothing like West and had zero protective instincts and maybe was terrible at his job. So she’d stop projecting feelings she wasn’t supposed to have.
Except she couldn’t move.
Because West turned.
Looked in her direction.
Could he see her? The moonlight was bright, but she was far away. Her cottage was one of many. Her deck was shadowed by palm trees.
But something in the way he went still suggested yes.
Britta’s heart thumped.
She should wave. No—no! What?
So she just stood there. Hands on the railing. Looking at him looking at her.
The feeling that settled over her wasn’t something she could name. Wasn’t attraction—though that was there, humming under everything else like an electrical current. Wasn’t fear—though she was terrified of what this moment meant, what she was feeling, what she’d already written into her fiction.
It was safety.
The same feeling her fictional Eva had when the stranger promised to keep her alive.
The same feeling she’d had on the beach when West said I get it about running and suffocating and needing to breathe.
You’re safe with me.
He hadn’t said it. And now didn’t do anything except sit there by the firepit with his team and look at her across the distance.
But she felt it anyway, right to her bones.
Someone said something. West turned back to the group. The moment broke.
Britta stayed on the deck. Watching him rejoin the conversation. Watching him laugh at something someone said.
Then she went inside. Closed the doors. Climbed into bed.
But she didn’t rewrite the Prague scene.
She left it exactly as she’d written it. The protective hero. The promise. The moment when Eva chose to trust a stranger because sometimes survival meant taking a leap.
Fiction, she told herself. Just fiction.
West hit the beach at 6:00 a.m.
Too early for most wedding guests. Late enough that the sun already painted the horizon in shades of orange and pink that belonged on postcards. The sand cooled his feet as he ran, the ocean crashing, sweeping away any thought.
Good.
He needed it to drown out his thinking.
Because thinking led to replaying last night. Yes, Britta. The way she’d looked at him and promised no drama. And of course, he’d spent the rest of the night sitting around a firepit with his team, trying not to look at her cottage.
Trying and failing.
Because he’d seen her. Standing on her deck. Moonlight catching her hair. That cardigan wrapped around her.
And he’d felt it—that pull. That awareness. That dangerous recognition that she wasn’t just the president’s daughter.
She was Britta. A person. Someone who’d survived violence and suffocation and was desperately trying to breathe.
Someone he understood despite every instinct telling him that understanding led to caring and caring led to complications.
West picked up his pace. His feet pounded the sand. His lungs burned with the salt spray and humid air.
Breathe. Don’t think about blonde hair and blue dresses. Don’t think about the way she laughed.
The beach stretched empty before him. Tiki torches from last night still stood along the path, unlit now in daylight. A few early risers walked near the water—couples holding hands, someone doing yoga on the sand, a guy with a metal detector searching for lost jewelry.
And shoot, there she was.
Standing at the water’s edge about fifty yards ahead. Barefoot. Wearing shorts and a tank top. Hair down and catching the breeze. Looking at the sunrise like it held answers.
West slowed. His brain cycled through options.
Keep running. Pass her with a casual wave. Maintain the boundaries they’d established.
Or stop. Talk to her. Risk whatever he’d seen in the moonlight.
His feet made the decision before his brain caught up.
He slowed to a walk. Close enough to be heard over the waves but not so close that he was invading her space. “You’re up early.”
She turned. Smiled. And it sort of exploded inside his chest. Oh.
“Couldn’t sleep. Too much wedding excitement.”
“That what we’re calling it?”
“‘Wedding excitement’ sounds better than ‘existential crisis about my life choices.’”
“Fair point.” He gestured at the ocean. “Bet this beats a DC sunrise.”
“Not even a contest. Most mornings I’m in DC with a list of appearances and meetings. This”—she spread her arms—“is not my normal.”
“Right? Maybe we both should be considering our life choices.”
“What’s your typical morning view?”
“I hang out a lot at my mom’s place in Iowa when I’m not in my apartment in Minneapolis. I like the fresh air.”
“Yeah. A lot of cows in Iowa though.”
“I like cows.” He smiled.
She nodded. “Yeah. My only real Iowa knowledge comes from the state fair. Dad did a lot of those.”
“I’ll bet. There’s more to Iowa than politics, though. Pigs, sheep, corn…”
“I need to get out more, clearly.”
West started to reply, but as he did, something moved in his peripheral vision. A shadow shifting. Thirty yards back, partially hidden by palm trees.
The female bodyguard.
Of course. Distant surveillance meant invisible to casual observers. Not invisible to someone who’d spent years doing threat assessments and knew how protective details positioned themselves.
West looked back at Britta. “Your team is watching.”
She followed his gaze. Sighed. “Patterson. She’s actually trying to stay back. This is her giving me space.”
“This is space?”
“Compared to usual? Yes.” She turned back to the ocean. “She’s good at her job. Can’t blame her for that.”
“When was the last time you did this? Walked on a beach with nobody hovering?”
She was quiet for a moment. Thinking. Or deciding how much truth to tell him.
“The last time I walked through an airport alone, I was nineteen,” she said finally.
“Spring break. Dad was still senator, not president. I had one agent—Patterson, actually. She used to let me walk ahead as long as I texted every five minutes. I bought terrible coffee and flirted with a guy at the gate and nobody cared who I was.”
“Years ago.”
“Years since I was just…a person.” She looked at him. “You ever feel like your life got divided into before and after? Like there’s this moment where everything changed and you can’t go back?”
Yeah. He knew that feeling.
Before his dad died. After.
Before the Marines. After.
Before he understood that duty could own you. After.
“Everyone’s got a before and after,” he said. “Question is whether the after is better or worse.”
“And if it’s worse?”
“You decide if you’re going to spend your life trying to get back to before, or if you’re going to build something new with the after.”
She smiled. Small. Sad. “That’s very philosophical for 6:00 a.m. on a beach.”
“That’s me. I’m very deep.”
“Apparently.” But she smiled, and again, the light just poured over him.
He should finish his run. Except he didn’t want to walk away.
“Come on,” he said. “Breakfast buffet opens at six thirty. You eaten?”
“Not yet.”
They walked toward the resort. Patterson followed at a distance—professional, unobtrusive, absolutely still tracking every step. Britta didn’t acknowledge her. West wondered if that was habit or willful ignorance or just the exhaustion of living under constant surveillance.
Breakfast had been set up in the tiki area, under the thatched roof. Ceiling fans turned lazily. Buffet stations spread across multiple tables—tropical fruit, pastries, hot dishes, made-to-order omelets. The scent of coffee hung in the air.
A few other guests had already claimed tables. West recognized some of them—wedding-party members, Marshall family, a couple he didn’t know who were probably Ford’s Montana friends.
He grabbed a plate. Headed for the protein station. Eggs. Turkey bacon. Whole-grain toast. Fruit. The kind of breakfast that fueled without weighing you down.
Britta moved to the pastry station.
Grabbed a croissant. Then a chocolate muffin. Then something that looked like it was made entirely of sugar and regret.
West raised an eyebrow.
“What?” She added a cinnamon roll to her plate. “I’m on vacation.”
“That’s not breakfast. That’s dessert.”
“Dessert is a social construct.”
“Pretty sure nutritionists would disagree.”
“Nutritionists aren’t invited to this conversation.” She grabbed a coffee. Added enough cream and sugar to qualify it as a different beverage entirely. “Besides. You’re eating bird food. Someone has to balance it out.”
“Bird food.”
“Turkey bacon? That’s sad bacon. Bacon that gave up on joy.”
Despite himself, West smiled. “It’s healthier.”
“It’s depressing.”
They claimed a table near the edge of the pavilion. Ocean view. Breeze cutting through the humidity. Far enough from other guests that conversation felt private.
West took a bite of his eggs. Watched her demolish the chocolate muffin with the enthusiasm of someone who rarely let herself have treats.
“So,” he said. “What do you do? When you’re not ditching federal agents and attending destination weddings?”
“I’m a lawyer. Just passed the bar.”
“Which state?”
“Montana.”
He looked at her. “Montana. Not DC?”