Chapter 11 #4
And what was he going to do? “I think it’s too late for me.”
Then he kissed her.
Not careful. Not tentative. Not the almost-kiss from the yacht that had been interrupted. Not the kiss on the boat that he’d walked away from.
This kiss was a promise. A choice. A confession that words couldn’t carry.
He kissed her with everything in his heart, and more.
Britta made a sound—surprise or relief or joy. Her hands slid into his hair as she kissed him back, her body pressed against his. No hesitation. No holding back.
The ocean hummed at their feet, the froth touching their toes. The music from the house drifted down—faint but present. “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.”
West’s hands slid from her face to her waist. Held her there. She fit against him perfectly. Her heart hammered against his chest, her breathing turned ragged.
He deepened the kiss, lost himself in the taste, the feel of her—soft and strong and real. The sound of her breathing—matching his, escalating with his.
This. This was what he’d been running from his whole life—and calling it freedom.
Not freedom. Connection.
Not independence. Home.
Not solitude. Love.
And maybe—impossibly—he could live with her complicated life. Could accept the Secret Service details and the political scrutiny and the watched existence. Could survive three years in Washington if it meant being with her.
Could build the home and family and future he’d wanted since he was a teenager on his grandpa’s Iowa farm.
If she was there. If they were together. If he got to hold her and kiss her and someday wake up beside her.
The cage didn’t matter if she was in it with him.
West pulled back. Just enough to breathe. His forehead pressed against hers. His hands still at her waist. Her fingers still in his hair.
“Three years,” he said. Voice rough. Wrecked. “Forget waiting. I can do three years in DC.”
“Are you sure?” Her breath was warm against his lips. “It’s not freedom. It’s the opposite of everything you said you wanted.”
“I was wrong about what I wanted.” West’s hands tightened. “I thought I wanted freedom. Turns out I just wanted you.”
Britta laughed. The sound breathy. Shaky. Happy.
Then she kissed him again. Softer this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that said This is real and I’m choosing you and We’re going to figure this out.
West’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again. Insistent.
West pulled back. Growled. Hauled her in out the phone.
Text from Ham.
Ham
Secret Service is getting nervous. You need to bring her back.
West showed Britta the screen.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course they are.”
Britta stepped back. Her hand found his. Threaded their fingers together. “Walk me back?”
They walked up the beach. Slow. Neither wanting the moment to end. The sand gave way to wooden stairs. The stairs led to the pool deck. The patio. The lights and music and people.
Mitchell stood near the house, his expression neutral. Professional. But his gaze tracked them. Assessed. Noted the linked hands. The proximity. The way West couldn’t stop looking at Britta.
Yeah, well, get used to it, guys.
They stopped at the edge of the patio. People still talked. Laughed. Enjoyed the evening. Most of the guests hadn’t seemed to notice West and Britta slip away. Or if they had, they’d been polite enough not to comment.
“See you at the wedding tomorrow,” Britta said.
“Yeah.” West lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “See you there.”
She smiled. The kind that reached her eyes and made his heart stop. Then she disappeared into the house.
Chávez caught West’s gaze. Raised an eyebrow. Didn’t say anything. Just turned and followed Britta inside.
West stood there. Alone on the patio. The party winding down around him. His heart still hammering. His lips still tingling. His hands still warm from holding hers.
Ham walked up to him. “You good?”
West turned. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Secret Service was about to send a search party.”
“We were just talking.”
“Right.” Ham’s mouth curved. “Talking. Is that what we’re calling it?”
West didn’t answer. Just grabbed his shoes from near the pool. Started walking.
Ham fell into step beside him. “So. The president’s daughter.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying. And I don’t care.”
“Good.” Ham’s voice softened. “She’s worth it.”
They walked down the beach. Away from Win’s estate. Toward the Airbnb rental just down the shore. The music faded behind them. The waves grew louder. The moon painted the sand silver.
West looked back once. The house glowed in the distance. Lights blazing. Security visible even from here. Britta inside, maybe writing her story.
West turned back toward the Airbnb. Kept walking. His chest lighter than it had been in years. His mind clear. His heart certain.
He’d fallen for Britta White.
And after the wedding, he’d talk to her father, the president—no panic there—and figure out how to make this work.
Because impossible was just another word for difficult.
And West had survived worse than difficult.
He’d survived falling in love.
Now he just had to survive keeping her.