“Portia?” came a voice. “It’s Monte.”
Silas’s head snapped toward the door.
My stomach plummeted.
Monte Jones. Loyal, steady, always-there Monte.
He’d been with me from the beginning—back when my company was three clients, one assistant, and a desperate pitch deck I’d designed myself. Over the years, he’d become more than just part of my staff. He was my right hand, my fallback plan, my human firewall.
Officially, he was Head of Security and VIP Guest Coordinator, a title we’d made up after one too many close calls with paparazzi and drunk best men. But Monte was so much more than that. He was the one I trusted with my most high-profile clients, the one who kept my name from being dragged into gossip blogs, the one who knew how to silence a scandal before it ever reached the bouquet.
And on a job like this—six high-powered, heavily scrutinized weddings, not to mention ex-military grooms with enough classified history to make the FBI sweat—I needed him more than ever.
When I called him and told him I needed him on-site in Charleston for the entire month, he didn’t hesitate. No complaints, no questions. He’d packed a bag, locked down the Atlanta office, and driven all day. Because that’s who Monte was. Unshakeable. Discreet. The calm in the storm.
He would be staying the duration—coordinating VIP arrivals, managing discreet transportation for sensitive guests, keeping the press at bay, and ensuring no overzealous cousin ended up on TMZ with an NDA violation.
And now here he was. On cue. Because something in his bones had told him I might need him.
“I saw a man come up the back staircase. Just wanted to check if you were all right.”
Shit.
“Everything’s fine,” I called, my voice higher than it should’ve been. “Thanks, Monte!”
Silas turned toward me, eyes narrowing.
“Who the hell is Monte?”
I stared back, defiant and still catching my breath.
“None of your damn business.”
8
SILAS
Istood in Portia’s suite, the door’s click still echoing, my hand still warm from where she’d grabbed me. Her silk robe clung to her curves, her curls spilling wild, and those eyes—dark, steady, seeing too damn much—pinned me like a target.
For a second, I’d been weak. Spilled my guts about my mother, like some raw recruit begging for a pat on the head.
“The woman who gave birth to me.” Jesus, what kind of idiot said shit like that?!
I’d come to The Palmetto Rose chasing a feeling I didn’t have a name for, and now Monte’s knock had snapped me out of it.
Good.
I didn’t belong here, playing house with a woman who’d already fucked me up more than a bullet ever could.
“Everything’s fine, Monte!” Portia’s voice was high, too bright, and it grated on me.
She was acting strange—edgy, like she was hiding something. Was it Monte, this suit-wearing shadow who’d materialized like a goddamn guard dog? Or was it me, blabbing about my mother like a fool?
I didn’t know, and I hated not knowing. My balls were back now, though. I was done with this soft shit.
“I won’t get in your way,” I said, my voice flat, all business. I kept my eyes on the wall behind her, avoiding that gaze of hers. “You do your job. I’ll do mine.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t read—lips tight, eyes sharp, like I’d just kicked her puppy or spit in her coffee. Was she angry? Hurt?
