Chapter Four
Gideon
Rhea returns two days later with the documents I requested.
This time, she arrives in the evening. The sky is already darkening, the temperature dropping fast. I hear her car before I see it, the engine noise carrying through the trees. When she steps out, the sight of her takes my breath away.
The other times I’ve seen her, she’s worn business clothes.
Conservative pencil skirts and boxy blazers, with her hair pulled into a tight ponytail.
Tonight, she’s wearing soft jeans that hug every curve and a low-cut sweater that gives just a hint of cleavage.
Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders.
She was beautiful before. Now, she’s a fucking knockout.
“Welcome back,” I say, holding the cabin door open for her and checking out her ass as she walks inside. Thank the Lord for whoever invented blue jeans.
Inside, she sets a folder on the table. "Everything you asked for. Plus a few things I thought might be useful."
I flip through the pages. More login records. Email chains. Transaction summaries. She has organized everything by date, and she’s flagged anything that overlaps with Warren's access.
I nod appreciatively. "This is thorough.”
"Thanks,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Maybe I should have gone into the detective business.”
“You’d make a hell of a forensic accountant,” I tell her.
“Hmm,” she says, tilting her head. “I’ve never considered that for a career, but it could be fun to look specifically for misconduct and bust the bad guys.”
I chuckle. “Give it some thought. I’d hire you as a consultant in a heartbeat, and I know half-a-dozen other PI’s and police departments who would, too.”
We spread the documents out and start comparing them to the timeline I built. The pattern becomes clearer with every page. Warren's access. The withdrawals. The careful spacing designed to avoid detection. It is all there.
"He must have known this would catch up to him eventually," Rhea says, shaking her head.
"People like him think they're smarter than everyone else," I reply. “And sometimes they are… until they get cocky and sloppy.”
She nods, studying one of the email chains. "So sloppy. Look at this."
She points to a timestamp. An email sent at two in the morning, followed by a transaction a few minutes later. No attempt to space them out or obscure the connection.
“He’s not getting out of it now. The only question is whether the company will press charges or not.”
She frowns. “Why wouldn’t they?”
I shrug. “Embarrassment. Bad press. A lot of times, these bigger companies choose to handle things internally.”
“No,” she says fiercely. “I won’t allow it.”
My mouth twitches into a smile. “Ah. The badass warrior’s going to get him.”
“Bet your ass. He was going to let them pin this on me. If they opt not to file charges, I’ll go public with it myself.”
I glance at her. She meets my gaze without flinching. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
“RidgeLine is my client, and they hired me to gather information and report to the board, so I can’t go public,” I tell her. “But I’ll put together an ironclad case so when it does go to court, it’ll be slam dunk for the prosecution. They’ll have a mountain of evidence against him.”
We work for another hour. By the time we finish, I have everything I need to take to RidgeLine's board. My job is done.
But I’m not ready to say goodbye to Rhea.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Please say yes.
She blinks, surprised. "Sure. You do make amazing sandwiches.”
I scoff. “I’m not making sandwiches. I’m making you a proper meal this time.”
I move into the kitchen and line up the ingredients—pasta, the meatballs I rolled this morning, garlic bread waiting for the oven. I set the water to boil and get the sauce going, easing into the familiar rhythm of it. Nothing complicated. Just quality ingredients and a meal that does its job.
I pour a splash of red wine into the pan to loosen the onions, then fill two glasses and carry one back to her, watching the way her eyes follow me.
“Mmm,” she says. “I usually just drink boxed wine.”
“This is nicer than the wine I usually buy,” I admit. “I wanted to impress you.”
Her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. “You’ve succeeded.”
I force myself to pry my eyes away from hers and focus on stirring the sauce. I don’t want it to burn.
She clears her throat. "You cook often?"
"Every day," I say, my voice teasing. "A man has to eat.”
She smiles at that. “Lots of men eat takeout.”
I grin back at her. “I do a fair bit of that, too. And sandwiches,” I add with a wink.
“With gourmet pickles, though.”
“Indeed.”
When the food is ready, I set two plates on the table and sit across from her. We eat without much conversation at first. But it does not feel awkward. It feels comfortable.
"This is delicious," she says after a few bites.
"We have the ladies at the Pine Hollow farmer’s market to thank for the fresh herbs and vegetables.”
“I really need to visit this farmer’s market,” she says with a laugh. “What made you choose Pine Hollow when you decided to leave Denver?”
I lean back in my chair. "I needed space. Distance. Somewhere I could work without people looking over my shoulder. But I also needed to be close enough to the city to attract a variety of clients. Pine Hollow fit the bill.”
"And you don't miss the city?"
"Not even a little.”
She takes another sip of her wine. "I've been thinking about leaving RidgeLine for a while now. Even before all of this."
I look at her, waiting.
"Corporate culture is starting to get to me," she continues. "There’s office politics, probably not that different from what you described at the police department. There are always people climbing the corporate ladder, looking out for their own best interests before the company’s, you know? Competence is seldom rewarded, and I’ve watched countless people get promoted just because they networked with the right people. ”
“The good ol’ boys club, where deals are made on the golf course?”
“Exactly.” She sighs. “I’ve never been great at networking. I’m a numbers girl. People will stab you in the back, but numbers never lie. They don’t play games. There’s a solution for every problem.”
"People are a whole lot messier," I agree. “But it keeps business booming for me.”
She laughs. “I can only imagine. People are exhausting.” Her eyes meet mine. “Well, most people.”
The air shifts, and I can feel the weight of what she is not saying. “Not me?”
"No.” She bites her lower lip. “You’re easy to be around. Maybe too easy.”
I reach across the table. Not thinking. Just moving. My hand covers hers. “Too easy?”
She doesn’t answer the question, but she does turn her hand over, curling her fingers in mine. We sit like that for a moment, just listening to the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, looking at each other.
“Rhea,” I say, my voice husky.
"This is probably a bad idea," she whispers.
"Why?"
“Because I like things to be orderly, controlled. And this feels… I could lose control with you.”
I run my thumb along the side of her hand. "Would that be so bad?”
She shakes her head. "I don’t know.”
“It wouldn’t be bad,” I promise.