Lunch never happened. Alec had to shift things around, and she had class anyway. Then came the evening shift with Regina—another banquet, another round of forced smiles and aching feet. Rhys had been watching, though she never saw him. She felt only the weight of his gaze, and, later, the sweep of headlights slipping in behind her as she pulled out of the event center and following her home.
Being shadowed could have been creepy. Instead, she felt less exposed—and relatively safe. Was anyone ever fully so? Her dad, Ethan, and Alec—cops who had seen more ugliness than she could fathom—would say no.
She had showered and was climbing into bed when Alec called to check in and say good night. His voice was tired, his words brief. She didn’t blame him. He was working. But the rather stilted conversation felt more awkward than it should have.
The next morning, she stepped out of her bedroom dressed and ready, tugging her hair into a low ponytail as she padded barefoot into the living room—expecting to find Rhys with a cup of tea and some sort of dry commentary.
Instead, a stranger stood in her living room.
He glanced up from his phone and smiled, easy and unbothered.
“Morning.”
Dark hair and eyes. Absurdly good-looking. He wore camo pants, a fitted black tee, and the relaxed bearing of a man who wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of a tactical gear catalog. She didn’t return his smile, asking stiffly, “Who are you?”
“Mateo. I’m your shadow for the day.” He unclipped an ID badge from his belt and flashed it her way.
“Where’s Rhys?”
“His shift ended at seven. He said he heard you moving around late and figured you could use the sleep, so he skipped the intro with the handoff.”
“He just left you here?” she said, her voice rising.
“Rhys let me in. I didn’t pick the lock, if that’s what you’re worried about.” His grin broadened. “Though I could, if I had to.”
She crossed her arms. “How many PIs does Devlin have?”
“Last count? Twenty-three. And that’s still not enough.”
She snorted despite herself. “You’re cocky.”
“I’m competent. It gets mistaken for cocky a lot.”
He handed her a travel mug. “Coffee. Black, two sugars. Rhys said you’d need it.”
She took it, eyeing him over the rim. “You’re also disturbingly well-briefed.”
“I had time to read your file while waiting for you to get up.” He gave her a once-over—not in a leering way, more professional, checking for signs of stress, fatigue, threat level. “What’s your schedule today?”
“I have a class at one. Before that, I was thinking about going by my storage unit.”
“Got it,” he said, like it was a routine client request. Then his tone softened, and he gave her a look that said he knew exactly what she was facing. “Storage units and emotional landmines—my specialty.”
She didn’t smile or react, but inwardly, she thought, another perceptive hottie with an investigator’s license. Lucky me.
He nodded toward her feet. “Get your shoes, and we’ll head out.”
They drove in silence, not awkward or uncomfortable but for her, necessary. She stared out the window, watching the city blur past, her thoughts tangled in the past.
After Ethan died, and she left home—and Alec—she’d had to do something with the house. She couldn’t bring herself to sell it, but she couldn’t live in it either. The memories were too overwhelming, the empty silence too loud. But she couldn’t afford the taxes and upkeep if it just sat empty, so she rented it out.
That meant cleaning it out and deciding what to trash, sell, and keep.
She wasn’t ready for that, so she hired movers. They packed up everything she couldn’t face—her parents’ furniture, her mother’s art, Ethan’s books, the family photos, the heirlooms. All of it had gone into storage. Out of sight. Out of mind.
But now, with bills piling up and danger circling closer, she couldn’t ignore it anymore. The things she’d clung to for comfort were just collecting dust in a cube she hadn’t visited in years.
Dad would say, “Be practical, Emily.” Mom and Ethan would agree—and be furious she was doing without when any of it could help her.
