Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Eight hours in a car with West had felt like the most honest conversation of Britta’s life.
Now he was ten feet away playing water volleyball and hadn’t looked at her once since they’d arrived the day before.
Either she’d completely misread everything, or he was better at hiding it than she was.
She didn’t know which option was worse.
Britta sat in a lounge chair by Winchester Marshall’s infinity pool, facing the ocean and pretending to watch the wedding-planning discussion happening around her.
RJ held her phone, scrolling through photos of centerpieces.
Scarlett made notes on her tablet. Glo offered opinions about table arrangements.
But really the ceremony, the reception, and all the details had already been buttoned down by Winchester’s private secretary, who’d shown up while Win was on his way from a shoot, swooping in like a movie producer and arranging everything for tomorrow’s perfect day.
So Britta’s attention kept drifting to the pool, where West spiked the volleyball with enough force to send water spraying over the deck.
His team celebrated. High fives. Shouting. Wyatt Marshall—goalie for the Minnesota Blue Ox hockey team, built like he could still check someone through the boards—argued that the point shouldn’t count because the ball went out of bounds.
West laughed. The sound carried across the deck. Deep. Genuine. The laugh she’d heard in the car when she’d made him sing.
Stop.
So they’d had a fun ride. Or at least, she had—another work of fiction, apparently, because as soon as they’d pulled through the gates, well, he’d handed her back to her detail without so much as an It’s been fun.
Probably how it should be. She hardly belonged here, with him.
With any of them. The Marshall family chaos was the opposite of every gathering Britta had ever attended.
Kids shrieked in the shallow end. Brothers argued over volleyball rules.
Someone’s playlist competed with the conversation.
Winchester shouted something about steaks from the outdoor kitchen.
No protocols. No formality. No one reminding her to smile properly or stand correctly.
She wanted this so badly her chest ached with it.
The mansion rose behind them—white paint and black shutters and balconies that overlooked the Atlantic.
Expensive but not pretentious. A movie-star mansion, sure, but also a home—big enough to gather an entire family.
Where security cameras were hidden but present.
Where the landscaping was perfect but not manicured into submission.
The pool stretched toward the ocean view, infinity edge making it look like the water spilled directly into the Atlantic.
The late-afternoon sun painted everything gold.
Long shadows stretched across the deck. The temperature had dropped from brutal to perfect.
Ocean breeze carried salt and the smell of burgers grilling and the sound of waves hitting the private beach below.
So…relax already.
She’d thought arriving at Win’s estate meant safety. She hadn’t counted on having to brace herself against the sight of West Young playing volleyball, tan and strong, that dark hair tousled, smiling and laughing as if he wasn’t giving her a second thought.
“Britta?”
She blinked. Focused. RJ was looking at her. Waiting.
“Sorry. What?”
“The florist called. She’s working on Scarlett’s bouquet. Roses or peonies?”
Britta stared at her, then at Scarlett. “What do you want?”
“You’re the one who knows what works. I sit behind a computer and drive a drone.”
“Peonies,” she said. “Softer. More romantic.”
Scarlett smiled. “That’s what I thought too.”
A splash from the pool. More shouting. West’s team had scored again. Britta didn’t look. Refused to look. Focused on her friends instead.
Emberly sat to her left—sundress over swimsuit, sun hat shading her face, relaxed in a way Britta envied. Apparently, she lived not far away, and she’d brought Steinbeck again, who’d joined the guys in the pool.
She updated Britta on her sister, Nimue, who was traveling in her new silver Airstream somewhere.
Glo stretched out in the chair beside RJ. She’d been welcoming from the moment Britta had arrived. No awkwardness about the fact that her mother, the once VP-elect, had conspired not so long ago against Britta’s father. The way Britta saw it, children weren’t responsible for their parents’ crimes.
Besides, it had to be an ache to have her mother sitting in federal prison, never able to meet Glo’s beautiful daughter.
Coco had disappeared inside with her laptop—probably analyzing data of some sort. The tech specialist didn’t do idle pool sitting. She did code and encryption and solving problems.
The Jones, Inc., team guys had brought their girlfriends this time too, who were scattered around—some by the pool, some of them cheering on the guys.
The team itself was staying at an Airbnb down the beach.
West included. They’d been here all day yesterday, helping decorate, but really getting in the way of the designers Win had hired.
They’d finally gotten shooed out to the pool.
Motion from the beach stairs caught her attention.
A figure paddled through the surf—blonde braid whipping, board cutting the waves.
She rode a wave in, hopped off with the kind of ease that came from years of practice, and trudged up the sand.
Water dripped from her wet suit. Sand stuck to her bare legs.
She carried the board like it weighed nothing.
“That’s Daisy,” Emberly said, following Britta’s gaze. “Winchester’s sister. She competes internationally.”
Daisy reached the pool deck. Propped her board against the fence. Unzipped her wet suit and peeled it to her waist—bikini top underneath, athletic build, zero self-consciousness. She grabbed a towel from a stack near the outdoor shower.
She walked over. Extended her hand to Britta. “Daisy Marshall.” Her grip was strong. Confident. “Heard you had quite the week.”
“You could say that,” Britta said. Daisy was clearly not put off by Britta’s First Daughter status.
“Yacht bombing. That’s intense.” Daisy sat on the edge of RJ’s lounge chair. Grabbed someone’s drink—maybe her own, maybe not—and took a sip. “You okay?”
The question was direct. Honest. Not the nice “How are you holding up?” that people asked when they wanted the acceptable answer.
“I’m fine.”
Daisy’s eyebrow rose. “That’s the polished answer.”
Britta’s eyes widened.
Glo laughed. “She’s got you there. We don’t do polished answers in this crew. Give us the real one.”
“The real one?” Britta repeated.
“Yeah. What’s it actually like? Being his daughter?
” Selah, North’s girlfriend, had come over and now sat in one of the beachy beanbag chairs.
“Being the president’s daughter. Living in the White House.
Having Secret Service follow you everywhere.
We see the photos. The formal events. The perfect smile. But what’s it really like?”
Britta looked at the faces around her. Waiting. Interested. Not judging. Just wanting truth.
She could give the practiced response. The one she’d perfected over recent years. It’s an honor. A privilege. I’m proud to serve in whatever capacity I can to support my father and our country.
The words formed on her tongue. Ready. Automatic.
“It has its moments.” And then, of course, her gaze went to West.
“Oh, I see,” said Selah, grinning. “Those moments.”
Wait—what? No, that’s not what she meant—
“Well, you’re just Britta here.” Daisy stood. “I mean, I’ve never felt safer, but whatever.” She grinned. “Glad to meet you.” She walked toward the house, stopping at the grill to talk to her brother.
The volleyball game continued. Shouting. Splashing. West dove for a ball. Came up laughing. Shook water from his hair.
Something in Britta pulled tight. She looked away. Focused on the ocean instead. The waves rolling in. The horizon stretching forever. The sky starting to shift toward evening colors—still blue but with hints of gold and pink at the edges.
Secret Service agents stood at strategic points around the property. Mitchell near the house entrance. Martinez by the beach stairs. Chávez just ten feet away. Another near the driveway. All in suits despite the heat. All with earpieces. All watching.
She was safe. So why did she suddenly feel more vulnerable than she’d felt hiding in Hawk’s apartment five days ago?
“I need to freshen up before dinner.” Britta stood. “Be back in a bit.”
She felt West’s gaze on her back. Didn’t turn to confirm. Didn’t want to know if she was imagining it.
The AC inside raised gooseflesh after the heat, and she walked along the cool tile to the stairs that led to the guest wing. Family photos on the walls—Daisy’s doing, probably—the Marshall brothers at various ages, parents who must have passed, candid shots of laughter and chaos and love.
The kind of family Britta had never had.
She climbed the stairs to the east wing.
The room was beautiful. Vaulted ceiling with white beams. A four-poster canopy bed with twisted white columns and brass rails.
Blue scalloped headboard. Aqua-patterned curtains draped inside the canopy frame.
White linens crisp and hotel-perfect. A crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, light-blue carpet soft underfoot.
A blue velvet sofa sat at the foot of the bed with a matching ottoman.
White dresser with gold hardware. Fresh flowers on the nightstand.
French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the water.
Windows on both sides let natural light pour in, the sound of the ocean filtering in with it.
Not as formal as White House guest rooms. But more personal. More real.
More like a home than a museum.
Britta closed the door. Leaned against it. Took a breath.
Her laptop sat on the desk. She’d brought it in earlier after Mitchell’s team had swept her belongings. Standard security protocol.
She should shower. Change for dinner. Fix her hair. Reapply makeup.