Chapter 4 #2
The Secret Service detail that followed her everywhere. The college boyfriend who’d lasted three months before texting I can’t live like this. The reality that dating the president’s daughter meant background checks and security protocols and watching a guy get tackled for opening the wrong door.
Never mind the fact that she’d already written West into her novel. And couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at sunrise, standing there on the beach, his hair all windswept, that T-shirt hugging his chest.
Oh brother.
“It’s complicated,” Britta said finally.
“Relationships usually are,” Signe said. “Doesn’t mean they’re not worth it.”
“It’s more than complicated. It’s—” Britta stopped. Tried again. “I can’t date. Not really. Not anyone. And definitely not someone like West.”
“Why not someone like West?” Scarlett asked. “He’s totally hero material. I vetted him when Ham brought him to Jones, Inc. He’s former Marine Corps. Highly decorated. Left after his contract was up.”
Britta’s stomach dropped. “Secret Service?”
Scarlett nodded. “His father was Secret Service. Died in the line of duty.” She lifted a shoulder. “I think West even applied to the Secret Service program.”
Britta stared at Scarlett.
West had tried to be the thing she was trying to escape.
He’d wanted the life of protocols and protection and putting duty above everything else.
He’d wanted to be like the people who followed her everywhere, who made her life a cage, who loved her by suffocating her.
“That’s—” Britta couldn’t finish. Didn’t know how.
“Ironic?” Scarlett supplied. “Yeah. Kind of perfect, actually. He was trying to protect you from the Secret Service when he wanted to be one of them.”
“Yeah. Ironic.” Britta gave a flimsy laugh. “Did he make it?”
“No.” Scarlett’s expression shifted. Something like sympathy. “He didn’t make it.”
And stupidly, Britta’s breath flooded out. Which was ridiculous. Secret Service personnel were heroes. Still, the thought of West being federal protection, being part of the system that trapped her—
“Why not?” she asked.
“I don’t know the whole story. But I heard he withdrew—that the job wanted someone who’d follow every order without question, and that wasn’t him.” Scarlett’s tech had finished with her toes and started on her fingers. “The kind of man who’d make his own call when it mattered.”
Britta stared at her. “Him? West? A wild card?”
He’d seemed so controlled. So measured. So carefully professional.
“He trusts his instincts,” Signe said. “Which is excellent for someone doing security consulting, where you need to make fast decisions. But Secret Service requires following orders. Maintaining protocol. Being predictable. West”—she smiled—“is a lot of things. Predictable isn’t one of them.”
“That’s exactly what he did at the airport,” Britta said slowly, understanding clicking into place. “He saw me. He intervened. Even though he had to know it would get him in trouble. He couldn’t help himself.”
“He’s a protector,” RJ said. “It’s who he is. Core deep. You can’t train that out of someone. You can only give them a place where those instincts are valued instead of punished.”
“Jones, Inc., values them,” Scarlett added. “Ham built a team of people who make their own calls. Who trust their training and their instincts. Who’ll break rules if breaking rules saves lives.”
Britta tried to reconcile the controlled man she’d had breakfast with to the wild card who’d been rejected by the Secret Service.
It made sense.
The way he’d intervened at the airport despite the cost.
The way he’d accepted her apology without making her grovel.
The way he’d stopped his run this morning to talk to her even though maintaining distance would have been smarter.
He couldn’t help protecting people. Even when it complicated his life. Even when it cost him.
“Feels like it was meant to be,” Kelsey said softly. “You needing someone who understands your life. Him having tried to be Secret Service. Both of you ending up at the same wedding.”
“Fate,” Glo agreed.
“It’s not fate,” Britta said. “It’s—”
“Romantic? A sign from the universe?” said Selah.
“The best meet-cute ever?” Coco suggested.
“Impossible.” Britta set down her champagne. Looked at these women who meant well, who wanted her to be happy, who didn’t understand. “Even if West was interested—which he’s not, we agreed to no drama—my father would never approve.”
“Why not?” RJ asked.
“Because of everything you just told me.” She gestured helplessly. “My father’s entire life is built on protocol and following orders and being predictable. West is the opposite of everything he values.”
Silence settled over the group.
“Your father’s approval matters that much?” Selah asked gently.
Did it?
They hadn’t seen her father’s exhausted expression last night. The way he’d said I can’t lose you and the grief under his words. The compromise they’d reached—distant surveillance, check-ins, the tracking necklace.
“My father controls my security detail,” she said quietly. “If I do something he disapproves of—like dating someone he sees as unsuitable—he can tighten the restrictions. More agents. Less freedom. Back to being escorted everywhere with no privacy.”
“So he keeps you in line by threatening to make your world smaller,” Emberly said, her green eyes on Britta.
“He’s not—” Britta stopped. Because that was exactly what it was. “He loves me. He’s terrified of losing me. And his fear is legitimate. The threats are real.”
“But using your need for freedom to control your personal life is manipulation,” Emberly said. “Even if it comes from love.”
Was it manipulation? Or was it just a father trying to protect his daughter the only way he knew how?
Britta didn’t have an answer.
“And who but West knows that world?” Scarlett said. “He tried to be part of it. He understands the protocols, the restrictions, the reality. It’s like…it was meant to be.”
And that was just…enough. “Listen. Let’s not get carried away. West and I have known each other less than twenty-four hours. And we agreed to no drama. Three days. That’s it.”
“Three days is plenty of time to figure out if something’s worth pursuing,” Kelsey said.
“Or plenty of time to create complications that follow me back to DC.” Britta looked at them. “If I pursue West and it goes badly—which it probably will because my life is impossible—my father will hover even more. I lose the tiny bit of autonomy I’ve managed to negotiate.”
“So you’re protecting yourself,” RJ said gently. “Not just from heartbreak. From losing what little freedom you have.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not living,” Emberly said. “That’s surviving.”
“Surviving is what I’m good at.”
“But is it what you want?”
Britta didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Because the truth was complicated.
She wanted safety and freedom in equal measure. She wanted her father’s love without his suffocating protection. She wanted to be brave enough to risk heartbreak without gambling away her autonomy.
She wanted West to look at her the way he had that morning—like she was worth stopping his run for, worth having breakfast with, worth talking about the deep things with.
But wanting didn’t make things possible.
“The rehearsal dinner’s tonight,” Scarlett said quietly. “Sunset cruise around the island. You’ll see him there.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Keep my promise.”
“That sounds very responsible,” Coco said. “And very sad.”
Britta didn’t have an answer for that either.
The spa technicians finished. The women stood, stretching, admiring their coordinated coral toes. Someone suggested massages next. Someone else wanted facials. The day was young and there were hours of pampering ahead.
Britta followed the women. Laughed at their jokes. Participated in the girl talk. Let herself be included in their world.
But part of her was already on that boat tonight. Already seeing West across the deck.
No drama, she’d promised.
But standing in a spa, Britta wondered if, despite the impossibility, some promises were made to be broken.
West had promised himself three things this weekend—he would be a good friend to Scarlett, keep Ford from panicking before the ceremony, and stop overthinking every interaction with Britta White.
The first two were going fine. The third—well, he was working on it.
Just relax. She’s a wedding guest. You’re a wedding guest. Her security detail is watching her. You don’t need to be at DEFCON 1, pal. Stand down.
The afternoon had almost cooperated.
Somebody—Wyatt, probably—had strung a volleyball net between two palms, and what had started as the Marshall brothers showing off had turned into a full-scale tournament, teams drafted with all the gravity of a UN summit.
West had ended up across the net from Britta.
She played barefoot, hair in a knot, absolutely without mercy. Her second serve skimmed the net and dropped dead at his feet before he’d finished telling Skeet to rotate.
“That’s match point,” she said. “In case you’re not keeping track.”
“I’m keeping track.”
“Just—you seemed busy. Supervising.”
Skeet snorted.
West took the next serve out of the air and drove it into the sand on her side, and she laughed—full out, head back—and something about the sound loosened a knot he’d been carrying since the airport.
Not involved!
The beach rehearsal was perfect. The sunset painting everything gold and orange. Gentle waves providing background music.
Tiki torches flickered along the makeshift aisle even though they wouldn’t be needed for another hour. Chairs were arranged in neat rows on the sand. The whole setup screamed “romantic destination wedding” in the best possible way.
Scarlett stood at the front, looking simultaneously excited and stressed, wearing a coral dress, her strawberry blonde hair up in a high bob.
Ford stood opposite her, tanned, in shorts and flip-flops.
A wedding coordinator from the property, someone named Angel with long blonde hair and a bohemian dress, held a clipboard and tried to corral everyone into place.