Chapter Two
BY SEVEN-THIRTY FRIDAY morning, humidity had dampened the back of my white tank before I crossed the cottage porch. Butter and bacon drifted through the palms from The Salty Spoon, and my stomach made a stronger argument than Cassidy’s list of approved breakfast options.
She waited beside the SUV in a deep-teal tank and khaki tactical pants, her strawberry-blond hair braided and her green eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
The fit drew my attention to shoulders built for swimming, a waist I wanted my hands around, and thighs that made me reconsider every rule against touching the woman assigned to protect me.
Her gaze traveled from my pale-aqua linen shirt and tan drawstring shorts to my white sneakers.
“You remembered shoes. We’re making progress.”
“I had a persuasive teacher.”
“You had one instruction.”
“And I followed it. I’m already exceeding expectations.”
One corner of her mouth moved before she turned toward the SUV. It wasn’t a smile, but I’d played arenas for less feedback.
Cassidy’s rules had kept me inside overnight: no beach, no boardwalk, and no opening the patio door because the ocean sounded better without glass between us.
By sunrise, her voice had settled into the same part of my brain that counted beats before a chorus.
Wait for clearance. Move when directed. Hold position. Don’t miss the cue.
I hated that kind of control when it came from managers and label executives.
From Cassidy, it sounded different.
Every restriction came with a reason, and she’d never treated me like an idiot. She’d stayed close enough for me to notice the freckles across her nose and the way she went still whenever I stepped inside her reach.
Or maybe I was hungry.
“For the record,” I said as I followed her, “I could’ve eaten breakfast in the cottage.”
Cassidy opened the rear door. “You could have.”
“Then why did you approve this?”
“Because you asked for one normal meal, and the restaurant has a service exit we can reach from the kitchen.” She waited until I was inside before closing the door. “An agent checked it before they opened. We’re arriving early, sitting near the back, and leaving when I say.”
An SBS agent sat behind the wheel. Cassidy climbed into the front passenger seat and looked over her shoulder.
“Any part of that unclear?”
“The part where you keep rewarding good behavior.”
“I’m allowing you to buy eggs.”
“Positive reinforcement works.”
The SUV rolled past the inn’s white cottages and blue shutters. Palms leaned over the road, their fronds barely stirring in the thick morning air. Through the gaps between buildings, the Atlantic flashed silver beneath a cloudless sky.
Cassidy checked the side mirror, then the road behind us.
I leaned forward between the seats. “Did you sleep?”
“Yes.”
“That sounded suspiciously efficient.”
“I slept enough.”
“Where?”
Her head turned slightly. “Somewhere you weren’t.”
“That covers most of Florida.”
“It was intended to.”
I sat back, grinning. She faced forward again, but I caught the small shake of her head.
The Salty Spoon occupied a faded yellow building near the boardwalk, with a striped awning over the entrance and a line of six people already waiting outside.
A gull stalked beneath the benches like it had a reservation.
The agent pulled into a narrow space behind the restaurant, where stacked crates and two dented delivery carts crowded the service lane.
Cassidy stepped out first. She checked both ends of the lane, then opened my door.
“Stay beside me until we’re inside.”
“I’m beginning to think you enjoy saying that.”
“I’d enjoy saying it less if you stopped trying to turn every instruction into foreplay.”
My feet hit the pavement. “So you’ve noticed the potential.”
“I’ve noticed that you’re awake.”
The kitchen door opened before I could improve my answer. A server in a black Salty Spoon T-shirt waved us in.
“You made it before the rush,” she said. “Come on. I saved the back booth.”
“Thank you,” Cassidy said. “We may need this exit again without warning.”
“I already cleared the carts away from the door. You won’t get trapped behind the pancake mix.”
“That’s the kind of hospitality I appreciate,” I said.
The server laughed. “My niece had your face on her bedroom wall for six years. Please don’t make me tell her I killed you with a box of Bisquick.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Cassidy pointed toward the dining room. “Keep moving, Hart.”
The restaurant smelled like bacon and syrup. Sunlight pushed through the front windows and striped the worn plank floor. Hundreds of abandoned flip-flops covered one wall, each marked with a date or a handwritten excuse.
I slowed beside a sparkly pink pair mounted above the register. “There has to be a story.”
“You can read it from the booth.”
Cassidy didn’t touch me, but her position left only one direction open. I followed it.
Our booth sat beside the swinging kitchen door. Cassidy took the seat facing the entrance and removed her sunglasses. Her green eyes swept across the front windows, the register, the restrooms, and the line outside before settling on me.
“You can stop studying the room,” I said. “I’m right here.”
“I know exactly where you are.”
Heat tightened low in my abdomen.
“That might be the best thing anyone’s said to me this week.”
“It’s Friday morning.”
“I’ve had a difficult week.”
“You arrived yesterday.”
“Exactly.”
The server returned with menus, two glasses of water, and orange juice for me.
“Do you need time?”
“I’ll take the Western omelet, pancakes, fruit, and wheat toast.”
Cassidy lifted her brows.
“I burn a lot of calories.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was deciding whether we’d need a second table.”
The server looked at Cassidy. “And for you?”
“Two eggs, toast, and fruit, please.”
“Do you want bacon?”
“Yes, I do.”
I waited until the server left. “You hesitated before ordering bacon.”
“I was considering whether I’d have time to eat it.”
“That’s tragic.”
“That’s protection work.”
“Still tragic.”
Cassidy drank some water. A strand of bright hair had escaped near her temple, curling in the humidity. Her sleeveless top left her freckled shoulders bare. I wanted to trace the scattered marks with my mouth until she forgot every exit in the room.
She set down her glass.
“What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Now you’re stealing my lines.”
“I’m identifying a pattern.”
A phone camera rose above the booth across the aisle. The woman holding it froze when Cassidy looked at her, then lowered it and pretended to study her menu.
I kept my voice quiet. “You can let her take one.”
“She already did.”
“Then you can stop frightening her.”
“I didn’t speak to her.”
“You looked at her.”
“So did you.”
“I’m charming.”
“That remains unconfirmed.”
The food arrived before I could defend myself. My omelet covered half the plate, with toast and fruit wedged around the edges. The server placed a separate stack of pancakes beside it.
“I decided against the second table,” she said. “You’re on your own if the booth collapses.”
“I accept the risk.”
Cassidy thanked her and waited until she walked away.
“Normal enough?” she asked.
I cut into the omelet. “Almost.”
“What’s missing?”
“You could admit you wanted bacon.”
“I ordered bacon.”
“Yes, but you acted like it was a tactical concession.”
Cassidy picked up a strip. “You’re spending too much time thinking about my breakfast.”
“I’m trying not to think about your shoulders.”
She paused with the bacon halfway to her mouth.
Her fingers tightened around the strip.
Then she took a bite, chewed, and said, “Try harder.”
I did. For nearly three minutes.
The front door opened and stayed open.
The line outside had doubled. Most people still looked like breakfast customers in beach clothes, but several held phones at chest level.
Two teenagers in Sunday Drive shirts edged past an older couple near the entrance.
A family with three young children had stopped beside the hostess stand, unable to reach their table.
Cassidy set down her fork.
“What changed?” I asked.
“The line.”
“It’s a popular restaurant.”
“It isn’t moving like a breakfast line.”
She slid out of the booth. She checked the windows, then focused on the woman who’d taken my picture. The woman stared at her phone, then glanced toward me.
More phones rose outside.
The sound in the restaurant rose by degrees. Chairs scraped. Someone near the door shouted, “Shane Hart!” A girl squealed, and the people behind her pushed forward to see through the glass.
I wiped my mouth and stood.
Cassidy turned immediately. “Sit down.”
“I can wave, tell them I’m eating, and ask them to give everyone room.”
“If they see you, they’ll press toward you.”
“They’re fans, not rioters.”
“I know.” She moved between me and the aisle. “That’s why I don’t want anyone knocked down.”
Cassidy pulled out her phone and angled the screen toward me.
A public post showed a blurry photograph of me entering from the back lane. Beneath it, a larger fan account had written:
Shane Hart at The Salty Spoon until nine. Informal breakfast hello before soundcheck. Come say hi.
“I didn’t announce that,” I said.
“I know.”
A hard knock struck the front window. Two women waved when I turned. Behind them, more people crossed from the boardwalk toward the restaurant.
The hostess held both hands up. “Please step back and give everyone room!” No one outside could hear her.
“I can calm them down,” I said.
Cassidy stepped close enough that her chest nearly brushed mine. “The second you become visible, every person outside will move toward this booth. Look at the entrance.”
A little boy stood pinned between his mother and the hostess stand. The older man I’d seen outside had one hand braced against the doorframe while people squeezed past him. Our server carried a full coffee carafe along the aisle, but a woman backing up with her phone nearly collided with her.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked.
Cassidy gave one small nod.
“Stay on my left. Keep moving. Don’t stop for pictures, even if someone asks nicely.”