Ross stood, shrugging on his coat. “One more thing.”
Marshall looked up.
“When a woman like Norah Winslow lets you stand close enough to protect her...” Ross tapped the table once. “Don’t waste it. You only get one second chance.”
Then he walked out, leaving Marshall alone with the untouched whiskey glasses, the weight of the investigation, and a heart that felt pulled in three directions at once.
Protect Norah. Clear Jackson. Unmask the mole before they lost the country to people like Senator Morris and the machine behind her.
He braced both hands on the table, bowed his head, and whispered the only prayer he had left.
“God . . . don’t let me fail them.”
CHAPTER 14
NORAH
The moment Norahstepped out of her car, she regretted the Spanx.
Designer armor had a way of turning into a slow-moving death trap when paired with a chilly West Virginia afternoon. Her dress—a midnight-blue silk that cost more than her first month’s rent out of college—made her appear polished. Elegant. Untouchable.
Exactly how she wanted to appear.
Exactly nothing like how she felt.
The venue sat on the edge of their hometown, a renovated barn turned country-elegant wedding space, strung with warm lights and lined with flower barrels. The scent of damp hay and eucalyptus mingled in the air. Voices floated from inside—laughing, familiar, painfully nostalgic.
Of course it would be her best friend, and Marshall’s little sister getting married. Of course she would come home for it. And of course...Marshall Kelley would choosetodayof all days to show up looking like every unresolved dream she’d ever had.
She spotted him before she meant to.
He was leaning against one of the wooden support beams near the entrance of the chapel, talking quietly with his uncle,his posture relaxed—but his eyes sharp. Always scanning. Always calculating. Always...him. The navy suit he wore wasn’t business-Marshall. It wasn’t the tactical-gear, tactical-glower version she’d grown too used to.
He wore a white dress shirt, open at the collar, tucked into charcoal slacks that hugged him in a way that should’ve been illegal in at least seven states. His hair was slightly longer than she realized—windswept in a way that looked unintentional but she knew wasn’t—and he had that focused, contained energy he always carried when he was tryingnotto show how on alert he really was.
Heat hit her throat and she tamped it down—hard.
He looked up. Their eyes met like a collision.
Darn it.
She didn’t walk toward him. Shewouldn’twalk toward him. But her traitor feet turned anyway.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she said lightly, trying to arrange her mouth into something that wasn’t a scowl or a wistful smile.
For half a heartbeat, Marshall Kelley—who probably walked into gunfire without flinching—went still. Not rigid. Not tense. Just...arrested. His breath caught the tiniest bit. His eyes swept over her in one slow, stunned pass, the kind of look she used to get when she walked toward him across a football field, wearing his jacket, the whole world narrowing to just the two of them.
He didn’t hide it fast enough.
His gaze dipped—once—to the line of her shoulder, the fall of her dress, the curve at her waist. His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking like he’d been punched somewhere he couldn’t protect. When his eyes climbed back to hers, they were steadier, disciplined again, but the damage was done. She’d seen it—the honest, unguarded moment beneath all that control.
“Norah,” he said, her name coming out low, rough-edged. He cleared his throat, straightened, forced the tension out of his posture. “You look...”
Another pause. A swallow.
“ . . . really nice.”
Nice.
