She didn't hesitate. "West room leak—need to get up in the attic and find the source. Two more shutters need rehinging. The dock out back is listing, but I'm not sure if that's a repair job or a rebuild. Kitchen faucet drips. Third step on the stairs squeaks. And I want to start on the guest rooms—fresh paint at minimum, maybe new curtains if I can find fabric that doesn't cost a fortune."
I turned to look at her. "You memorized that."
She shrugged, licking her spoon. "I like lists."
"I've noticed."
"They keep me organized."
"They keep you safe," I said quietly.
She paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, and met my eyes. Something passed between us—understanding, maybe, or recognition. She knew I saw her. Really saw her.
"Yeah," she admitted softly. "They do."
We finished our ice cream, the mugs scraped clean, and set them on the porch railing. The swing continued its lazy motion, back and forth, back and forth. The marsh whispered secrets in a language older than words. A night bird called out, lonely and searching.
Hazel shifted closer, tucking herself against my side. I lifted my arm automatically, draping it around her shoulders, and she melted into me like she'd been waiting for permission. Her head rested in the hollow of my shoulder. Her hand settled on my chest, right over my heart.
We rocked together, the swing's chains singing their soft song, and the world narrowed to this: her warmth, her scent—soap and something floral—the steady rhythm of her breathing matching mine.
The ocean crashed gentle in the distance. The marsh hummed its evening hymn. Nature gave us a private lullaby, and I let myself drift in it, holding her close, feeling her weight against me like an anchor I hadn't known I needed.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time felt irrelevant.
Then the hunger returned—slow at first, then building, coiling low in my gut until I couldn't ignore it anymore. I turned my head, pressing my lips to her hair, breathing her in.
"Hazel," I said, my voice coming out rough, edged with heat I didn't bother hiding.
She tilted her face up to look at me, eyes dark in the fading light. "Yeah?"
"I can't wait any longer." The words came out raw, honest. "I need to be inside you again."
Her breath caught. For a moment she just looked at me, studying my face like she was reading something written there. Then she lifted her hand, cupping my jaw, her thumb brushing slow across my cheekbone. Her touch was gentle, reverent, and it undid me more than any words could.
"What took you so long?" she asked, her voice soft and teasing and full of want.
13
THE VANGUARD
The binoculars were military grade—German optics, nitrogen-purged, with enough magnification to count the nails in the porch railing from half a mile out. He swept them slowly across the Bradford Inn, tracking movement through the lit windows.
There. The big one. Broad shoulders, controlled movements, the kind of awareness that came from training.
Another Dane.
He lowered the binoculars and pulled out his phone, hitting the encrypted line. Two rings.
"Tell me." The voice on the other end was sharp, impatient.
"Gideon Dane. Charleston. Kiawah Island."
A pause. "You're certain?"
"Positive. And he's not alone—there's a woman. Redhead. Owner of the place." He raised the binoculars again, watching Gideon's hand settle possessive on her back. "He's already attached."
"So, we use her. Draw him out."
