Natasha exhaled softly. “That’s significant.”
I nodded. “Apparently, she’s big on community service. And first responders. She wants to thank me as a citizen.”
Beth smiled. “That’s kind of amazing.”
“It’s intimidating,” I admitted.
“But also affirming,” Natasha said.
I leaned back again, letting that sink in. Affirming. Not because of praise or attention—but because it meant the moment mattered. That stepping forward had rippled outward in ways I couldn’t have predicted.
The sun dipped lower, shadows lengthening across the pool deck. Eventually we packed up, heading back to our room to getready for the night. The air-conditioning felt glorious after hours in the heat.
As I showered, I let the water run longer than necessary, thoughts drifting. Wyatt’s smile. His easy laugh. The way he’d looked at me that morning like he was seeing all of me at once—past and present layered together.
I thought about dancing with him. About the press of his hand at my waist. About whether the line we’d carefully not crossed would still hold once music and movement entered the equation.
When I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, Beth was already laying outfits across the bed like a stylist on a mission.
“Okay,” she said. “We need to establish a vibe.”
Natasha nodded. “Texas, but elevated.”
I laughed. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
As I dressed, pulling on curve-hugging jeans and boots I hadn’t worn in years but had packed just in case, a spark of anticipation lit in my chest. The night ahead felt charged with possibility. Music. Laughter. Wyatt.
And somewhere beneath it all, a quiet awareness that this trip—this week—was already reshaping something inside me.
Charleston had a way of doing that. Of slipping under your skin when you least expected it.
12
WYATT
The first thing I did when I got back to Mama P's was make a call.
I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at a contact I hadn't used in months. Mitch Webb. Defense Intelligence Agency. Twenty-five years in the game, most of it spent in places that didn't officially exist doing things that would never make it into reports. The kind of guy who knew things before they happened and kept secrets that would topple governments, if he ever decided to talk.
If anyone could tell me about Dominion Hall, it was him.
He answered on the third ring, his voice gravel and amusement. "Dane. Didn't expect to hear from you. Thought you were enjoying mandatory fun time."
"Need a favor."
"Always do." I could hear him smiling through the line. "What's the ask?"
"Dominion Hall. Charleston, South Carolina. What do you know?"
There was a pause. Not the kind where someone was searching for information or buying time. The kind where they already had it and were deciding how much to share, how many layers to peel back.
"They're the good guys," Mitch said finally. "Period."
I blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it. Clean operation. High standards. Resources most people can only dream about. If you're asking about them, you've already passed the first test just by being on their radar." He paused. "Why are you asking?"
"There might be a job in it for me."
