2. Henry
Henry
The car rolls across the road stretching into town, past rolling hills and golden fields that seem to glow in the late afternoon sun. The town sign looms into view, weathered but sturdy:
Emily makes a low, unimpressed noise in the seat beside me. “Huh. Not even eighteen-five. Cute.”
I don’t respond. She’s been making these offhand comments the whole drive—little observations dripping with sarcasm, like she’s testing how much I can tolerate before snapping. And so far, I’ve tolerated a lot.
The SUV hums beneath my hands as I turn off the main road, weaving through streets lined with quaint houses, picket fences, and the kind of small-town charm that makes city people roll their eyes.
There are already too many people looking curiously at the black SUV.
A few are walking their dogs, others sipping coffee on their porches, eyes narrowing with unfiltered curiosity.
Emily shifts beside me, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against her thigh. "Why do I get the feeling people here know everyone’s business before it even happens?"
"Because they do."
The house comes into view—two stories of white wood and history. The place has the bones of something grand, the kind that’s survived generations and holds its stories in the floorboards.
Emily’s brows furrow. "How do you know where my grandmother lived?"
“Because I know a lot about you.”
Silence.
Then, she twists to face me fully. “Define a lot.”
I keep my eyes on the house, but I can practically hear her raising an eyebrow.
“Your name is Emily Carter,” I start, voice level. “You’re thirty-two. Graduated top of your class from Columbia Medical College in 2015. You’re allergic to shellfish and morphine. Your father is Richard Carter, ex-NYPD, did time for manslaughter.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. She stares at me, more horrified than impressed. "That is so creepy."
I kill the engine. "It’s my job. Now get out."
She scoffs but reaches for the door. Before she can step out, a chorus of "Welcome home, Emily!" rings out from the sidewalk. Three middle-aged women, one carrying a tiny dog in a sweater, wave enthusiastically.
Emily leans over, whispering, "Our facade starts now. So, as my adoring fiancé, you should probably get my bags. Unless you want these people to start suspecting things."
I grit my teeth. "You are such a pain."
She grins, smug as hell.
Dropping my head back against the seat, I sigh before hauling myself out of the SUV. The women are still watching, their smiles way too pleased. Small towns.
Opening the trunk, I grab her luggage, grumbling under my breath. "Babysitting a spoiled brat wasn’t exactly in my plans."
I wouldn’t even be doing this if it weren’t for Chief Tom Harrison. A man I owe too much to say no. A man who asked for a favor, and here I am, hauling bags for the woman who seems fully at home with handling the three gossips.
Only the Lord knows what she’s telling them, but they all turn and wave at me. One of the women, Mrs. Everett beams.
Mr. Everett looks entirely too interested.
A minute later, Emily leads the way inside, looking far too pleased with herself as I haul out her luggage.
By the time I reach the house, my irritation is a tangible thing—thick, coiled, pressing against the back of my teeth. I drop her bags inside the doorway with a thud.
“There. Happy?”
Emily winks. Winks. “Very.”
I swear under my breath and look around.
The house is grand, but it carries that unmistakable air of a place left untouched for too long.
Dust motes swirl in the late afternoon light filtering through lace-curtained windows.
The furniture—elegant but old—sits like forgotten relics, draped in white sheets.
Emily turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. “I haven’t been here in years.”
I busy myself checking the windows and locks, already making a mental list of security upgrades.
"You knew my grandmother?" She’s running her fingers over a photo frame, voice softer now.
"Yeah. She was impressive."
She looks at me like she wants to ask more but doesn’t.
Instead, she watches as I do my mental list of safety upgrades—windows, locks, sightlines.
I don’t say more. Instead, I move from room to room, assessing weaknesses—windows that need reinforced locks, doors that need sturdier bolts.
Emily trails behind me, curiosity in her eyes.
“You’re taking this very seriously,” she notes.
“No shit.”
She huffs. “You’re gonna start installing cameras and setting up booby traps, aren’t you?”
I glance at her. “Tomorrow morning.”
She snorts. “Of course. You really know how to make a girl feel safe."
"It’s not my job to make you feel safe. It’s my job to keep you safe. There’s a difference."
Emily moves to the couch, pulling one of the sheets off with a dramatic whoosh. Dust flies everywhere. She coughs, waving a hand in front of her face. “So, Henry, do you ever take a break from being an emotionally constipated security robot, or is that just your whole personality?”
“What do you think?”
She hums, watching me closely. "Well, while you’re being all manly and protective, you could help me rearrange the place. Make it look like a human actually lives here."
I don’t look up from checking the window latches. “Is there anything you can do yourself?”
Silence.
For the first time since meeting her, I don’t hear a comeback. I glance over just in time to see her blinking, expression blank.
Lips pressed into a thin line.
For the first time, I really look at her.
She just stands there, her large, expressive green eyes wide, wavy honey-blonde hair tied in a ponytail, letting tendrils fall over her eyes. Porcelain skin dusted with freckles. And her lips—full, naturally pink—are currently pressed into a very thin line.
Something inside me shifts. Something I don’t like.
I haven’t felt anything in six months. Not since Libya. Not since I carried Aubrey’s limp body through the sand, six hours back to base, her blood soaking into my uniform.
But now?
Now there’s a woman standing in front of me, looking like I just kicked a puppy, and somehow, it makes my chest ache.
Emily suddenly clears her throat. "Sorry. Forget I asked."
Damn it.
"I’ll help."
Her lips twitch, and that stupid ache in my chest spreads.
I don’t like it.
So, instead of acknowledging it, I focus on the house.
We work quickly, stripping the sheets from furniture, dusting surfaces. Emily chatters while we move, telling me about childhood visits, about how she used to think the town was dull.
I glance at her. “Ironic, since now you need to hide in a place where nothing happens.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Life’s funny like that.”
Eventually, she turns to me, serious now. “Do you want to know how I got into trouble?”
I nod. “I read the brief. Black Talons.”
Her expression tightens. “Yeah.”
I lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “First rule: tell me where you’re going before you go anywhere.”
Emily raises a brow. “First thing tomorrow, I’m meeting my friend Maggie.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You run it by me first. And I’m not sure it’s wise to be out first thing tomorrow.”
Her hands land on her hips. “You can’t order me around.”
I push off the counter, stepping closer. “I saw people at the station. Might’ve been Black Talon men.”
She stiffens.
“If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up dead.”
Something flashes in her eyes—fear, defiance, maybe both.
She shakes her head. “I never asked for a bodyguard.”
“And I never wanted to play house with a spoiled doctor.”
Silence.
Emily exhales sharply. “Why do we have to pretend to be engaged?”
I cross my arms. “Because people in this town talk. I don’t fraternize. If I suddenly start hanging around you for no reason, it raises red flags. But if we pretend, we’re engaged…” I shrug.
She studies me for a moment. Then, suddenly, she steps closer.
“Can you even pretend we’re engaged?”
Tilts her chin up.
“I do whatever it takes to get the job done.”
Leans in.
In a voice so sultry it genuinely makes my brain short-circuit, she murmurs, “Then maybe you should kiss me.”
My body locks up. Heat surges through me, unwelcome and sharp. Her breath brushes my skin.
I take a step back like I’ve been burned.
Her smirk is victorious. “See? You can’t even do that. Anyone with two brain cells will see through the ruse of us being engaged at first glance."
Then she yawns, stretches, arms stretching over her head as she flops on the couch, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
"Goodnight, fiancé. Lock up on your way out."
And I—Henry Walker, Navy SEAL, combat-hardened soldier—stand there like an idiot, jaw clenched, heart pounding, wondering what the hell I just got myself into.
***
The drive home is hell.
The night air outside the car is cool, the road ahead dark and winding, but my blood is boiling.
Emily Carter.
I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary, my knuckles going white. I can still hear her voice, dripping with sarcasm, practically daring me to kiss her.
Then maybe you should kiss me.
I shake my head hard, like I can physically dislodge the thought from my brain. Jesus. What the hell just happened back there?
She’s infuriating. Entitled. Stubborn as hell. Thinks she can throw out challenges like that and not expect consequences.
The worst part? She’s right.
Anyone with two brain cells would see through our little engagement ruse if we don’t at least try to act the part. But she didn’t have to say it like that. She didn’t have to look at me like that. Like she was testing me.
I force my jaw to unclench as I pull up the long driveway leading to my sister’s house. The lights inside glow warm and welcoming against the night, and I already know what’s waiting for me on the other side of that front door.
Dinner.
Family.
A conversation I don’t want to have.
I park, kill the engine, and step out, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to shake off the tension before heading inside. It doesn’t work.