I'm filming a quick morning routine video. Every detail is planned out. I’m wearing an oversized cream sweater, my hair is in a messy bun, and steam is rising artfully from my mug as snow falls outside the picture window behind me. I'm mid-sip,mid-smile, practicing that effortless influencer thing I've spent years perfecting, when the bell over the door chimes.
And my body reacts before my brain catches up.
That same tall frame. That same dark jacket. That same controlled, deliberate way of moving like he's always exactly where he's supposed to be and everyone else is just visiting. The Daddy Dom energy coming off every pore in his body.
Ty Garcia.
He spots me instantly. His gaze locks on like a heat-seeking missile, dark eyes finding mine across the crowded coffee shop with an intensity that makes my breath stutter. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Then he walks straight toward me.
Uh oh.Somehow, I know, I just know, I’m in trouble.
I lower my phone slowly, my practiced smile going stiff at the edges. My heart is doing that stupid thing again—the flutter-pound-race that makes me feel like I'm sixteen and not a twenty-six-year-old woman who should have better control over her autonomic nervous system.
“You,” he says when he reaches my table.
“Me,” I agree, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
His eyes flick to my phone, still in my hand. “Recording?”
“I was. Not anymore.”
“Good.”
There it is again…thattone. Approval laced with authority, settling warm and heavy in my chest. Who is he to me to approve or disapprove of my actions? No one. And yet… his approval does something to me.
He gestures to the empty chair across from me. It's not quite a question. “May I?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He sits and up close in better light, I can see details I missed before: the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his shoulders fill out that jacket in a way that suggests he spends serious time in a gym or outside chopping wood. Maybe, he’s a lumberjack bodyguard. I know better. He’s government, right? I mean, that’s what he said.
He orders a black, no sugar coffee and then turns his full attention back to me.
“You didn't post anything from the other day,” he says. It's not a question.
“You told me not to.” When I’d gotten home, I realized the video was in my deleted folder, still accessible. I was tempted, very tempted, to disobey his order. I might be reckless but I’m not that reckless.
“And you listened.”
Something in the way he says it makes my stomach flip. Like he's surprised, maybe pleased.
“I'm not an idiot,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I’m not going to go against a federal agent.”
His mouth curves just barely, just enough. “I didn't say you were.” His tone is lowered, a warning. I can’t miss the shift in his tone.
“Then why are you checking up on me?” Is that what he’s doing? It feels like it.
“Because you post your location a lot. And that's dangerous.” He’s not wrong. I post my location. What he doesn’t know is, I never post it live. When I post my story about today, I won’t be here at the coffee shop. I’m notthatstupid.
I bristle despite the heat coiling low in my belly. “It's kind of my job.”
“I know what your job is, Madison.” He leans back slightly, arms crossing over his chest in a way that shouldn't be attractive but absolutely is. “I looked you up.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You googled me?”
“Call it due diligence,” he says. “Three million followers. Daily content. Location tags on approximately seventy percent of your posts.” He frowns with the last sentence.
