2. Kane
KANE
Iwatch her go.
She moves fast, her hips swaying under that floral skirt as she practically flees down Main Street. I stand dead center on the sidewalk, a six-foot-four wall of muscle, iron, and frustration, watching every single step she takes until she disappears around the corner of the diner.
My jaw aches. I realize I’m grinding my teeth so hard my back molars feel like they’re going to splinter.
My hand comes up, fingers digging hard into the faded scar along my jawline.
A nervous tick. A remnant from a deployment in Eastern Europe that left half my squad six feet under and sent me back to Colorado with a mind that refuses to shut down.
You're in the way.
That was the best I could do? Four words. Barked out like a drill sergeant ordering a recruit to clear the choke point.
She looked at me like I was a lunatic. A giant, ugly brute who just stepped out of the woods to ruin her morning.
I drag a heavy hand down my face, swearing under my breath.
Eight years in Special Ops, clearing rooms and relying on hand signals to keep my team alive, stripped away whatever useless small talk I ever possessed.
I don't know how to talk to women. I sure as hell don't know how to talk to a curvy, golden-haired angel who looks like she was crafted out of sunshine and pure sin.
I turn and head toward the hardware store, my boots striking the pavement in a rigid, rhythmic march. My eyes sweep the street out of habit. Sightline clear. Alleyway on the left, two exits. Rooftop line on the right, clear.
Hyper-vigilance isn't something you can switch off when you trade a rifle for a nail gun.
Taking over Forge Creek Municipal Contractors and spending my days in the yard was supposed to burn off the adrenaline, burn out the noise in my head with heavy lifting and molten steel.
It worked, mostly. Until seven days ago.
Until Marlowe rolled into Forge Creek.
We don’t get many newcomers in our small mountain town, so of course, everyone noticed her.
It took Mrs. Kincaid all of twelve hours to get her name and spread it around town.
The second Marlowe stepped out of that rusted, clunking sedan of hers, every alarm inside my chest went off.
The town sees a bright, cheerful girl with dimples and a laugh that carries down the block. They see sunshine.
I see the posture.
I see the way her light green eyes check the exits every time a door opens.
I see how her smiles freeze around the edges when someone gets too close.
I see the skittish, innocent girl hiding under those bright clothes, practically trembling with a fear she’s trying like hell to mask. She’s running. She’s terrified.
And someone, somewhere, put that look in her eyes.
A dark, lethal heat surges through my blood, making my vision edge in red. My hands curl into fists at my sides. I couldn't save my men in that hellhole overseas. The intel failed, and I carried the bodies out. I couldn't protect them.
But Marlowe?
No one is touching her. Over my dead fucking body.
I make a stop at Whitfield she’s running. Her head is down, her shoulders hunched. She looks around frantically, checking both sides of the alley, before her hand darts to her jacket pocket.
She shoves a small, rectangular package deep inside, pulling her jacket tight over it.
My brows pull together. She just stole something. A box of crackers or maybe some protein bars.
She isn't a thief. Everything about her screams honesty, light, and sweetness. If she's stealing food, she’s completely, utterly desperate. She has no money.
A knot tightens in my gut, hot and suffocating.
I stand there in the shadows, watching her hurry toward the far end of town where the cheap, long-term parking lot sits.
My jaw flexes. I can't just hand her cash. Her pride is fierce; I saw the spark of defiance in her eyes when she talked back to me on the sidewalk. If I try to hand her a wad of hundred-dollar bills, she’ll throw them in my face and run right out of Forge Creek.
I need a tactical solution. A job.
I run the logistics of Forge Creek Municipal Contractors solo for the most part, which means the paperwork in my office is a chaotic disaster. I need someone to manage the desk. I need an assistant.
She needs a paycheck, and I need her where I can guard her.
I get into my truck, cranking the engine. As I drive out of town toward my cabin up on the ridge, my mind refuses to settle. A job gives me eight hours a day with her. What about the other sixteen?
Where is she sleeping?
My chest tightens. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, but I make good money.
I live in a rough, isolated log cabin, but my bank account is stacked.
I don't care about fancy cars or expensive clothes, but right now, I want to buy every piece of real estate in this valley just to ensure Marlowe has a safe place to land.
Unfamiliar, wild thoughts start spiraling in my head as the truck climbs the winding mountain road.
I picture buying a property near the creek.
A real home. A place with a wide porch where my angel can sit in the sun, wrapped in one of my flannel shirts, looking soft, curvy, and entirely mine.
I picture building a fence around it myself, iron bars high enough that no threat on earth could ever reach her.
I shake my head violently, slapping a hand against the steering wheel.
Fuck. Get it together, Kane.
I've known Marlowe for a week from afar, spoken four words to her face, and I'm already planning where to put our porch furniture. It’s unhinged. It’s obsessed.
I pull into my driveway, the cabin sitting quiet and dark against the pine trees. I cut the engine and sit in the silence, staring down at the valley below.
She thinks I'm the enemy. Let her. Tomorrow, I'm giving her a job. She’s going to work for me, she’s going to take my money, and she’s going to stay safe.
Because whoever is hunting my sweet, curvy girl is going to have to come through me first. And I have absolutely nothing left to lose.