Chapter 10 #4
He gave a wry chuckle. “It’s okay.”
“Your dad was a hero. And you’re a hero, West. Your dad would be proud of you.”
He cast her a look.
“You don’t have to be Secret Service to be a hero. To save the First Daughter.” She winked. “You could just show up for a wedding and throw her into the ocean and act as a human buoy and—”
“Okay, okay. Point taken.” And then, for some reason, he reached out and squeezed her hand. “For the record…worth it.”
Silence as she molded her hand to his, squeezed his back.
And the car turned warm, almost as if the heater had kicked on.
He took his hand away. “What’s next on the playlist?”
“Oh. Um…” She stared at her phone, but he spotted a hint of a blush. “‘Bridge over Troubled Water’?”
“Keep scrolling.”
But she pushed Play anyway and sang the words softly. The verse about being weary and small, about drying every tear when times got rough.
Okay then.
He listened for a bit, then joined in. “‘I’ll take your part…Like a bridge over troubled water…’”
And suddenly they were crooning together and the story lifted off his chest, replaced with a warmth, the calming thump of his heart.
No, not complicated at all.
They held the last notes together. Ridiculous.
Oh, he liked her.
She mimicked the final guitar riff as the song finished. Laughed when it ended.
“My roommate and I used to sing that in college.”
“Guess your roommate had good taste in music.”
“Oh, this is my favorite playlist.” Journey again—the one about a highway running into the midnight sun.
He hummed along.
“First time I ran from my detail, I was sixteen,” Britta said quietly. “We were in DC. I snuck out to a college party with a friend whose dad was also a senator. My detail found me within an hour.”
“Took that long?”
“Hey, I was good, even then.”
He laughed. “What happened?”
“My father was furious. I thought it was because I’d embarrassed him.” Her voice went flat. “That I wasn’t a daughter who’d made a mistake—I was a security risk who needed better protocols.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It took me a long time before I realized that it wasn’t that. He was afraid to lose me.”
“Of course he was. He is.”
The song’s chorus came on. “‘I’m forever yours, faithfully.’”
Britta joined in. “Clearly Journey is your weakness.”
“I secretly go to all their reunion concerts.” He winced, caught. “Truth? It was my dad’s favorite band. He took me to my first concert.”
He stopped for ice cream and a bathroom break in Fort Pierce. Britta ate her cone in the car, humming to the Monkees’ “Daydream Believer.”
They then cut out to the barrier island and took Jimmy Buffet Memorial Highway along the ocean. She rolled the window down and stuck her arm out, her flat palm surfing the breeze.
He asked her about life in the White House. She told him about her dad’s love of homemade ice cream and sneaking leftovers from state dinners, and how he’d tried to ask a congresswoman on a date once, and how his cabinet had an emergency meeting to shut it down.
And he told her about joining Jones, Inc., and how he’d found brothers there, but how someday, maybe he’d go back to the farm.
“And learn how to grow peas?”
“Maybe just raise a family and be a greeter at Walmart.”
And she laughed at that, but something sweet shone in her eyes. “Yeah, you’d be great at that. People would think twice about shoplifting.”
By the time they hit the outskirts of Melbourne Beach, West sort of hated his stupid rules.
Especially the no-kissing one.
But every other boundary—emotional distance, professional detachment, not caring too much—yeah, her laughter had blown those to smithereens.
Some EOD guy he was. He hadn’t even seen it coming.
“Where are we going again?”
“The beach estate of Winchester Marshall.”
She stilled. “The actor? The guy who plays Jack Powers, ex-CIA spy?”
He glanced at her. “Apparently, he’s Ford’s cousin. So yes.”
“Wow. Will he be there?”
And shoot, the tiniest sliver pierced his chest. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
And it hit him then that Winchester Marshall might be exactly the kind of guy who should be with Britta White. Famous. Polished. And complicated, probably.
And there it was—the knot in his chest.
The GPS directed them through residential streets that narrowed, the homes sitting back from the Indian River, some of the properties stretching all the way to the ocean on the other side.
Stately, with gated yards and multiple buildings, manicured lawns.
Security cameras visible on every corner.
Old money and new power mixed together in a neighborhood designed for privacy and protection.
He slowed and Win’s estate appeared ahead.
“Wow,” Britta said. “Okay, this rivals our place on Fisher Island.”
He’d seen pictures of the White family mansion in tabloids, but to hear her admit it…
The estate stretched along the beachfront like something out of a vacation magazine.
White mansion with a metal roof gleaming in the sun.
Multiple wings. Three stories. Arched windows and a grand entrance with white columns.
Circular driveway paved with crushed shells, and a manicured lawn so green it looked fake.
Palm trees everywhere—tall ones, short ones, clusters creating shade.
Tropical landscaping with hibiscus and bougainvillea, and hedges left a little wild.
The whole property screamed wealth and the particular luxury of space—acres of it, all facing the ocean, all designed to keep the world out.
To keep the world out.
Reality crashed back in, hard. The road-trip bubble burst. The normal conversation and easy laughter evaporated.
He pulled up to the checkpoint. Rolled down his window. Showed his ID.
The guard checked a list. Nodded. Waved them through.
The gates opened. West drove up the long driveway. Past perfectly landscaped gardens, toward the main house. Wraparound porch. Beautiful. Intimidating. And beyond the main house, other structures—guest cottages, maybe, or pool houses.
Private. Secluded. The kind of place where the Secret Service could maintain perimeter security without being obvious. Where the president’s daughter could breathe without cameras.
Exactly the kind of place where presidents’ daughters belonged.
Black SUVs lined the circular drive. Men in suits stood at strategic points. Earpieces. Sunglasses. The unmistakable stance of Secret Service agents on duty.
Something in West seized. This was it. The handoff. The moment he’d been driving toward for eight hours, given their stops along the way.
He glanced at Britta and affected a smile. “Made it.” Then he parked. Killed the engine.
Britta didn’t move. Just sat there. Staring at the house. At the agents.
“Britta—”
“Thanks for the ride, West.”
Oh. He nodded.
She took a breath and got out.
He did too. The Florida heat hit immediately—humid, heavy, pressing down. The smell of ocean and cut grass and expensive landscaping.
A man approached from the house. Fifties. Graying hair. Suit despite the heat. Confident stride.
“West Young?” He wore recognition on his face, in his smile. He extended a hand. “Man, you look just like your old man.”
What?
West shook the man’s hand, his grip automatic. Professional.
“Agent Robert Mitchell. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah.” West had no idea—
“Last time I saw you, you were fifteen. Your dad and I were working for the governor’s office in Iowa.”
Oh. That made sense.
“Good man. Terribly missed. Best partner I ever had.”
The words settled in West’s chest. Yeah, his father had been a great partner. A respected agent. A dedicated protector.
Just not a great dad.
Mitchell’s attention shifted to Britta. His expression changed—professional, respectful, distant.
“Welcome, Miss White. We’ve got full security protocols in place for the wedding. You’re safe here.”
Mitchell turned back to West. “I’ll bet you’re ready to hand her over, huh?”
Next to him, Britta stiffened.
West hesitated half a second too long. But, “Sure.” Aw, that came out wrong. No, no—not at all.
And Britta looked away.
He could almost feel the cold gust from her. Yeah, well, he didn’t blame her.
Shoot—he should have thought this through before he’d started singing along to Simon & Garfunkel.
“Thanks again for the ride, Mr. Young,” Britta said. Her shoulders squared. Her chin lifted. Every inch the president’s daughter walking back into her controlled, managed life.
Okay, that hurt.
West watched her go, his chest aching.
The SUV had pulled up behind him, and now Chávez met him on the steps. He greeted Mitchell, then turned to West. “You’re off duty, Young. We’ve got it from here. She’ll be safe.”
“Yes.” West forced himself to meet Chávez’s gaze. “I know she will.”
“Your team is bunking off-site in one of the neighboring Airbnbs, so get some rest. Enjoy the wedding week. But let’s be clear. You’re off duty. A guest, nothing more.” Chávez’s eyes held his. “No more interference.”
West’s mouth tightened, his gaze going to the front door, where Britta had gone into the house. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Chávez headed inside, leaving West and Mitchell in the driveway, the Florida sun beating down.
His brain kept replaying the last eight hours—Britta’s laughter, her stories, the way she’d challenged him and understood him and made him feel less alone than he’d felt in years.
He wasn’t ready to walk away. Wasn’t ready to hand her over.
Wasn’t ready to let her disappear into that house while the Secret Service took over and he became just another guy in the background of her story.
But ready or not, it was done.
She was inside. Surrounded by agents. Protected by protocols. Safe.
And West was out here. Off duty. Unnecessary. Obsolete.
He walked back to the car. Got in. Started the engine. The air-conditioning kicked on—cold air hitting his face. The sudden contrast made his eyes sting.
West pulled out his phone. Texted York.
West
Starlight delivered. Secret Service has her. I’m off duty.
York’s response came immediately.
York
Copy. Good job. I’ll shoot you a pin to our location.
Great.