Chapter 10
TEN
Britta woke to sunlight, borrowed sheets, and the hollow ache in her chest reminding her that she’d kissed West Young last night and he’d responded by establishing boundaries and walking away.
Hallelujah and happy day.
She’d bet Eva, her romance heroine, never spent the morning after the first kiss hiding in a borrowed bedroom, nursing a broken heart, and trying to figure out how to face the hero who’d established a no-kissing rule.
But then, in her fiction, Britta’s heroines never kissed men who walked away.
She rolled onto her back. Stared at the ceiling. Her mind drifted. Creating. Escaping. The thing writer brains did when reality hurt too much.
In Britta’s wildest dreams, West walked through the door of their Lisbon safe house, carrying pastéis de nata and coffee, sunlight streaming through the windows, no bodyguards or threats or stupid rules.
The apartment had terra-cotta tiles. Whitewashed walls. Windows that opened to the sound of waves and the smell of salt air and the distant cries of gulls. A small balcony with wrought-iron railings and pots of geraniums.
West walked in with that crooked smile. The one that made her stomach flip. Barefoot. Wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt. No tactical gear. No weapons. Just him.
“Morning.” He set the pastries on the counter. Crossed to where she stood by the window. Wrapped his arms around her from behind. Kissed her neck. “Sleep well?”
She laughed. Turned in his arms. Kissed him. Long. Slow. No urgency. Just connection. Just them.
“We should get out,” he murmured against her lips. “Explore the city. See the castle.”
He kissed her again. Deeper. His hands framing her face.
“What if we could live this way forever?” Her words emerged breathless, desperate. Hopeful.
West’s forehead pressed against hers, his breathing unsteady. “Then I’d never let you go. I’d keep you here. Just us. No Secret Service. No protocols. No one telling us this is impossible.”
“It doesn’t feel impossible.”
“It feels like coming home.”
Britta’s chest expanded. Warmth flooded through her. This. This was what she wanted. Not the White House. Not the cameras. Not the controlled, managed life of the president’s daughter.
Just West. Just freedom. Just the chance to be herself.
“Then let’s never leave,” she whispered. “Let’s stay here. In this apartment. In this city. In this life where we get to choose.”
West smiled. Kissed her again. “Deal.”
The sunlight grew brighter. Too bright. The edges of the room blurred.
Then she woke up. Oops, she’d fallen back asleep.
Just a dream.
None of it was real—the apartment, the freedom, the version of West that said “forever” instead of “professional boundaries.”
Just her writer brain creating escape. Building a fantasy to protect her from the truth.
Whatever she’d felt—whatever she’d thought was growing between them—had been one-sided. A mistake.
Her mistake.
Britta sat up. Pressed her palms to her eyes. Took a breath. Another.
Pull yourself together. She barely knew this man. She did not have a broken heart. She was just embarrassed.
She was the president’s daughter. She’d survived a lifetime of cameras and scrutiny and people making decisions about her life.
She just needed coffee.
Voices drifted through the bedroom door. Low. Conversational. West’s voice—she recognized the cadence, the rough edge. And another voice. Female. Muffled through the wall.
Britta swung her legs out of bed. Her bare feet hit the plush carpet. Exhaustion still dragged at her bones. Swimming to shore last night had depleted reserves she didn’t know she had.
She wore Imani’s borrowed pajamas—cotton pants too long, T-shirt too loose. Her hair was a disaster. Her face probably looked worse. Dark circles. Puffy eyes. The evidence of a woman who’d cried herself to sleep.
Perfect.
Britta crossed to the door. Pressed her ear against it. Listened.
“—should have full access within the hour.” The female voice. Professional. Technical. “The encryption is military grade, but whoever configured it made some rookie mistakes. I can exploit those.”
“How fast?” West’s voice.
“Like I said—an hour. Maybe less.”
“Good. We need to know who they were communicating with.”
Silence. Then the sound of someone typing. Fast. Rhythmic.
Britta’s hand found the doorknob. She should take a shower, avoid this awkward morning-after confrontation for another twenty minutes.
But she needed coffee. Desperately. And hiding was for cowards.
Britta turned the knob. Opened the door.
Sun streamed into the suite’s main room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the ocean. The kitchenette occupied the far corner—small sink, minifridge, coffee maker that Britta locked onto like a heat-seeking missile.
West stood near the small dining table. He wore a clean black T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders and made his arms look even more impressive than she remembered. Jeans. Tennis shoes. Hair damp like he’d showered recently.
Coco sat at the table. Laptop open. The stolen phone connected via cable. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, her gaze completely focused on her screen.
West looked up and his gaze fell on Britta. Just like that, his expression shifted. Something flickered in his eyes—softness, warmth—then the professional mask slammed down.
“Morning,” he said, his voice neutral. Careful. “Sleep well?”
The question was innocuous. Polite. The kind of thing a bodyguard asked a client.
Right.
“Fine.” Britta’s voice came out rougher than intended. She cleared her throat. “Coffee?”
“Already made. Fresh pot.” West gestured. “Mugs in the cabinet.”
She found a mug. Poured. The aroma reached in and jump-started her brain. She wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic. Took a sip. Black. Strong. Perfect.
“Doughnuts?”
Britta looked up.
West held up a pink box. Bakery logo on the side. He opened it. Revealed an assortment of doughnuts—chocolate frosted, glazed, jelly filled, Boston cream.
What?
Britta stared at the box. At West.
Pastéis de nata in Lisbon. Doughnuts in a Florida hotel room. Same energy. Same gesture. Same West offering her exactly what she wanted before she asked.
Did he know he’d been in her dreams? How did he—
Wait—two nights ago she’d watched a baking show in his friend’s apartment. Had given her commentary about how doughnuts were underrated and cupcakes were overrated and why did every baking show focus on fancy when sometimes you just wanted glazed and simple and perfect.
He’d been paying attention.
Oh.
“Britta?” West said, frowning. “You okay?”
She blinked. Focused. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—” She gestured vaguely at the box. “You remembered.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You made a pretty compelling argument about the superiority of doughnuts over cupcakes. I figured you’d need fuel for the day.”
“Fuel.” She repeated the word. Testing it. “Right. Because we’re—”
“Road-tripping.” West set the box on the table. “Six hours to Melbourne Beach. Logan rented us a car. We’ll convoy.”
Coco looked up from the laptop. “Hey, Britta. Good to see you again. Ham sent me to crack this phone.” She gestured at the device connected to her computer. “Should have full access soon. Then we’ll get a better picture of who these guys were.”
Britta nodded, her brain still processing West’s words. Road trip. Six hours. Her and West. In a car. Close quarters.
Gulp.
“There’s a tracker on the car,” West continued. “York and Logan will follow. Far enough back that they won’t be visible. Close enough to respond if needed. And we coordinated with your detail. They’ll be with us too.”
“Backup.” Britta’s voice came out flat.
“Protection.” West’s jaw flexed. “We’re not taking chances.”
Britta took another sip of coffee. Let the caffeine work its magic. Let her brain catch up to the conversation.
Six hours in a car with West. Sure. No. Problem.
She could do professional too, thank you so much.
“Your bag’s here.” West gestured toward a duffel near the door. “York retrieved it from the island cottage this morning. Everything should be there.”
Britta looked at the bag. Her stuff. Clothes. Toiletries. The few possessions she’d had when this whole nightmare started.
“Thank you.” She set down her coffee mug and retrieved her bag. “I’ll just”—she gestured toward the bedroom—“get ready.”
“Take your time. We’ve got a couple hours before we need to hit the road.” West’s gaze held hers for a beat too long. Then he looked away. “Coco needs to finish with the phone. I need to coordinate with Ham. We’ll leave by ten.”
“Ten. Got it.” Britta walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
Leaned against it. Took a breath. Another. Pressed her hand to her chest where the hollow ache had expanded into something bigger. Something that felt like it might crack her open.
He’d brought her doughnuts. Remembered what she liked.
Stop. Don’t read into it.
Britta pushed off the door. Dropped the duffel on the bed. Unzipped it. Her clothes were folded neatly—someone had packed carefully. Maybe Patterson.
She found her toiletries bag and pulled out cutoff denim shorts, a simple gray tank top. Casual. Comfortable.
Road-trip worthy.
She showered, changed, stared at herself in the mirror.
Dark circles still shadowed her eyes despite the makeup she’d applied. Her hair hung in damp waves. And the tank top showed the scrape from climbing out the cabin window.
No one would peg her as the president’s daughter.
She looked like Britta, just a girl.
A road-tripping girl.
Britta pulled out the burner phone that West had purchased, the one she’d waterproofed in the dry bag before swimming to shore.
She tapped in her father’s private number from memory.
Unknown number
It’s me. I’m fine.
Sent it before she could second-guess.
The response came within thirty seconds.
Dad
I know.
Just those two words.
Huh.
She wanted to text back. Ask for clarification. Demand to know what her father knew and how he knew it.