“Would you like to look over the décor, Captain?”
His eyes flick briefly to the room, to the photos I’ve carefully arranged, the streamers twisted just right. Then they come back to me—steady, assessing, unreadable.
“Looks appropriate,” he says.
He inclines his head once and turns away.
Just two words. One lingering look. And something deep in my stomach flutters like it’s been startled awake.
I take an unsteady breath as I watch him cross the room, his stride measured, purposeful. Every step seems deliberate, as if he carries the weight of the space with him. I’m so focused on the line of his shoulders, the quiet authority in the way he moves, that I almost miss it.
Almost.
At the door, he slows. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to make my heart trip.
For half a second, I’m certain he’s going to look back.
Instead, he lifts his chin slightly—control sliding back into place—and walks out, the door swinging shut behind him and cutting his imposing, impressive frame from view.
The loss feels… disproportionate.
A part of me wants to follow him, to see where he’s going, what has his focus, what his life looks like now. But I’m rooted to the spot, staring at the closed door like it might reopen if I will it hard enough.
Even with him gone, I can still feel that pull. The same one I felt years ago, when I used to trail after him like a shadow, pretending I wasn’t watching. He was fifteen years older then, always busy, always serious. My father told me not to bother him, so it became a quiet game—avoiding his gaze, staying justout of reach, following him like a detective who never wanted to be caught.
Back then, he barely knew I existed.
Now that I’ve felt the full weight of his look—steady, assessing, unmistakably focused—I want more.
It makes no sense. He’s clearly sunk deeper into his military life, into discipline and structure and distance. And yet something has shifted, gravity tilting so sharply toward him that it feels impossible to ignore. As if I’m no longer standing still at all, but being pulled forward by a force I don’t know how to fight.
I nibble my bottom lip, my thoughts betraying me as they linger on his sharp jaw, his perfectly balanced mouth, the low timbre of his voice when he spoke.
Well.
At least my talent for distraction hasn’t changed.
And the ones The Ridgehouse is offering this summer are far more dangerous—and compelling—than I remembered.
Chapter 2 - Wes
I thought a workout would purge her from my mind. The obstacle course normally puts everything in perspective. Not even the barbed wire I’m crawling under can pop the memory of her soft hazel eyes staring up at me with awe rather than respect and slight intimidation. I heard someone call her name as I left; Hailey.
I recognized her immediately.
Those hazel eyes are the same ones I remember from years ago, belonging to the quiet girl who used to hover on the edges and then, one day, simply stopped showing up. Colonel Carter’s daughter.
But this Hailey isn’t a child.
She’s grown into something else entirely—and that’s what unsettles me.
She’s a young woman now. Not the quiet presence I half-remember, not a shadow at the edge of a room. There’s warmth in her that feels deliberate, lived-in. She doesn’t reach for attention, yet it finds her anyway. People respond to her without realizing why.
Hailey stands out here because she doesn’t fit the lines we live by. She moves softer, breathes easier, loose and unguarded where everyone else is pressed into shape and held there by habit.
I try to force her out of my head the only way I know how.
I finish the obstacle course. I take a cold shower until my skin burns and my thoughts quiet. Then it’s back to duty—paperwork, schedules, logistics. The event later today needs final approval. There is more than enough to occupy me.
