Chapter 11 #3
The long table stretched across the patio.
Candles flickered down the center. White lights strung overhead created ambient glow against the darkening sky.
The ocean rolled in the distance—waves a constant rhythm beneath the conversation.
The smell of grilled steak and roasted vegetables and fresh bread mixed with salt air and the bouquet of Win’s expensive wine.
Britta’s arm brushed his when she reached for her water glass. The contact sent heat through his chest. She pulled back. Apologized. Smiled.
West lost his train of thought.
She wore a sundress, the kind of thing any woman might wear to a beach dinner. White with small flowers. Her hair loose and drying around her shoulders. Freckles across her nose from the afternoon sun. No makeup except maybe something that made her eyes look impossibly blue.
No one would have pegged her as the president’s daughter.
She looked like Britta.
And West was drowning.
“You okay?” Her voice. Quiet. Just for him.
He turned. Met her gaze. “Yeah. Fine.”
“You’re not eating.”
He looked at his plate. Steak half finished. Vegetables untouched. He’d been pushing food around. Oops.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
Everything. Nothing.
“Tomorrow. The wedding. Making sure security protocols are solid.”
Britta’s expression shifted. Something flickered in her eyes. Disappointment maybe. “You can’t shut it off, can you?”
Oh.
She turned back to her plate. The conversation around them continued. Winchester announced dessert. Someone suggested s’mores by the firepit. Kids cheered.
Something in West pulled tight. He’d totally stopped thinking about her safety, or at least how he had to protect her, for the past three days.
Instead, he’d watched her laugh and talk with the girls and noticed how easily she fit into the group.
And he’d very much longed to put her in the car and drive to Alaska.
Stopping for tacos and ice cream along the way.
Music started from speakers hidden in the landscaping. Soft. Easy. Background for the gathering. Then the song changed. Something older. Classic. The opening notes immediately recognizable.
The Carpenters. “(They Long to Be) Close to You.”
And yes, he looked at Britta.
She wore a soft smile.
People were moving away from the table. Standing. Stretching. Knox grabbed his wife’s hand and pulled her toward the open patio area, where the music played louder. Wyatt did the same with Coco, and of course Ford and Scarlett. Dancing under the stars.
West stood, his chair scraping stone, his heart suddenly hammering. He extended his hand to Britta. “Dance with me.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“We didn’t get to finish our dance on the yacht.” His voice came out rough and unguarded. “I want a redo.”
And then she smiled.
It just…exploded through him and oh, he was a goner.
Then she took his hand.
West pulled her to her feet, led her to where the others danced, and took her into his arms.
The music wrapped around them. The stars winked overhead.
West drew her close, one hand at her waist. The other holding hers.
Britta’s hand rested on his shoulder. Light. Tentative. Her body close enough that he could smell her shampoo—coconut and something floral. Could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
They turned in a slow circle. More sway than step. West had no idea if he was leading correctly. Didn’t care. Just wanted to hold her. Just wanted this moment before time ran out.
“‘Just like me, they long to be close to you…’”
She was singing along, and somewhere in all of that, took a step closer so she was tucked against him.
West went still.
And hummed with her.
Around them, other couples danced. Knox dipped his wife. Tate and Glo moved in perfect sync.
But all West knew right now was Britta—the way her body fit against his and how right it felt and how terrifying that was.
The song ended. Another started. The Beatles. “Let It Be.”
“When I find myself in times of trouble…”
“Does Winchester have your playlist?”
She laughed. “No. He just clearly has great taste in music.”
West didn’t let go and they danced until the next song—ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”
“Okay, I’m out.” He met her eyes. “Walk with me?”
Britta’s gaze searched his face. “Where?”
“The beach. Just for a minute.”
Her gaze flicked toward the house. Toward where Chávez stood near the entrance. Secret Service never off duty.
“They’re watching,” she said.
“I know.” West’s hand slid from her waist. Found her hand. Threaded their fingers together. “But I need to talk to you. Away from everyone. Please.”
“Okay, but it’s not on me if you get tackled.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
They walked away from the patio. Past the pool glowing with underwater lights.
Down the wooden stairs that led to the private beach.
The cool sand squished beneath West’s feet.
The ocean stretched out forever—dark water meeting pale sky.
The moon hung low on the horizon. Full. Bright enough to paint everything silver.
The music followed them. Distant now. Just background noise beneath the sound of waves.
West walked until they were far enough from the house that conversation felt private. Then he stopped. Turned to face her.
Britta stood staring out into the night, the ocean breeze playing with her hair. “It’s so beautiful.”
Yes. Yes, it was.
“All I ever wanted,” West said quietly, “was what the Marshalls have. A home. A family. A future that wasn’t dictated by duty or protocol or someone else’s needs.”
Britta tightened her fingers around his. Warm. Solid. Grounding.
“Your dad just has three years left.” West’s voice cracked. He forced the words out anyway. “Three years in office. Three years of being president. Three years of you being the president’s daughter. What if…” He stopped, swallowed, blew out a breath.
“What if we didn’t wait? What if I’m with you through those three years and every year after? What if you’re not trapped forever and I’m not asking you to give up everything? What if this insane, impossible, complicated thing between us could actually work?”
Britta’s mouth opened, and…
“I’m sorry—that’s not fair—”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
West’s breathing stopped. “You would?”
“Three years feels like forever right now. But it’s not. It’s just three years.” She stepped closer and touched his face. “I want that. Want to see what happens after. Want to believe there’s more than…right now.”
“Britta—”
“But…that’s not fair to you.”
“You let me worry about what’s fair to me.” He reached up, covered her hand with his, and drew it from his face, weaving their fingers together. Held it.
“I like you, Britta. More than…well, I really, really like you. I like all the things about you. I like that you’re stubborn and brave and have vintage taste in music.
I don’t like that you climbed out a cabin window and swam to shore when you disagreed with my plan, but I can appreciate your courage.
I like that you write stories about women who save the world.
” His voice grew a little husky. “I really like that you stood up to your father and hung up on the president.” He lowered his forehead to hers.
“I like that when you kiss me, nothing else exists. I like that you make me want things I’ve spent my life avoiding.
I like that you make me believe freedom isn’t running away—it’s choosing what matters. ”
Britta’s breath caught.
“Maybe that was way too much—”
“I really, really like you too.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“I like that you keep your promises. That you fight for people. That you told me about your father even though it hurt. I like that you brought me doughnuts because you remembered. That you asked me to dance. That you believe in my stories. I like that you make me feel brave enough to do crazy things like hang up on my father, the president.” She swallowed.
“I like that when you look at me, I feel like I matter. Not because of who my father is. Because of who I am.”
Aw.
“I think I could even fall for you, West.”