She opened the door, looking lovely but shy, her expression tentative. She stepped back to let him in, and the faint scent of vanilla and spice clung to her, comforting but distracting. The cottage was warm, beautifully decorated, but all he could see was the way she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Wow,” he said softly, looking around. “You really have outdone yourself. This place looks great.”
Some of her anxiety seemed to melt at that, a small grin touching her lips. She poured them bourbon, her hand trembling just enough for him to notice, and they settled on the sofa.
She asked if he was hungry. He was starving, so she grabbed a menu and ordered from Josh’s Back Street, then excused herself to the bathroom.
Burke carried his empty glass into the kitchen. He set it in the sink, then noticed her tote bag sitting on the counter. It was open, and a glint of metal caught the light under the cabinets. He frowned, leaning in.No... it couldn’t be. He nudged the tote just enough to see inside.
A Glock rested there.
He rinsed the glass slowly, eyes shifting to the window above the sink. A heavy screw had been drilled into the frame, sealing it shut. The gun. The locked window. Darcy wasn’t just careful—she was afraid.
But afraid of what? Survival—from who? His one guess: an ex-husband. But now that he thought about it, she had neveronce mentioned being married. She hadn’t mentioned a single relationship at all.
When she came back, her expression softened again, though he saw the shadows beneath it now.
“Darcy,” he said, his voice low. “If I rushed you into anything last night, I need you to know I’m sorry. I would never want you to feel pressured.”
She lowered her gaze, twisting her hands in her lap. When she finally looked at him, her eyes shimmered.
“You didn’t rush me,” she whispered. “I wanted last night as much as you did. But... there are things about me you don’t know.”
He reached for her hand, gentle as ever. “Then tell me. You can tell me anything.”
Her lips quivered. She shook her head, fighting herself, then finally whispered, “I’m starting to fall in love with you. But there are things that could change the way you see me. Things I can’t just explain away.”
His chest ached at the sight of her trembling lip, the tears threatening to spill. He lifted his hand to her cheek, brushing against her skin. “Darcy... you can tell me anything.”
She drew in a shaky breath, her lips parting as though she might finally unburden herself?—
The doorbell shattered the moment.
Darcy flinched, nearly spilling her drink. She hurried to the door, hesitated, and peered through the peephole—eyeing the porch before unlatching it.
“Izzy!” she cried, launching into the arms of the dark-haired woman on the porch. They bounced and squealed like schoolgirls, hugging so tightly they nearly knocked the poor delivery kid sideways. The sack of food wobbled precariously until Darcy noticed. She laughed, took it from him, and ushered Izzy inside—suitcase and all.
The second Izzy’s arms wrapped around her, Darcy breathed in the familiar floral perfume she hadn’t realized she missed so much. The tension of the night eased—Izzy smelled like home, like the quiet comfort of someone who had seen her through everything.
Burke rose halfway from the sofa at the sound—those shrieks were delight, not alarm—and then he sank back with a faint, knowing smirk. The warmth of her almost-confession lingered, but so did the cold weight of what he’d seen in the kitchen—the gun in her bag, the locked window. Darcy was falling for him. But she was also hiding something, and whatever it was, it terrified her.
Izzy
The second Izzy stepped over the threshold, she halted mid-motion. A tall man rose from the armchair—tan skin, broad shoulders, blond hair, eyes the startling blue of a summer sky. His presence filled the room with a kind of authority that made her straighten instinctively. He looked like he belonged here, solid and unshakable.
“Ohhh—” Izzy stammered, her mouth parting in surprise. “I didn’t know you had company.”
Darcy rushed to fill the silence, her cheeks flushed. “Burke, this is my best friend in the whole world—Izzy. Izzy Moreno.”
The man stepped forward, offering his hand. “Burke Scott.”
Izzy slipped her hand into his, arching a brow. His grasp was firm but not crushing, grounded as though he could anchor a storm. “So you are the sheriff.”
“I am.”
“I’ve heard a good bit about you, Sheriff,” she teased, her lips curving, though inside her sharp eyes catalogued everything—his calm posture, the way his gaze flicked to Darcy as though her reaction mattered most, the hint of protectiveness that rolled off him.
His eyes glinted with amusement. “Oh, you have, have you?”
