"Where does she go after?" I ask.
"The bridal suite. Private. Bridesmaids with her. No press access, no guests, no Blake."
"Security?"
"The resort has private detail. Natalie's father will have arranged additional. The Ashfords don't leave things to chance."
"Do we need to coordinate with them?"
"I'll handle that. A conversation with the head of security before the ceremony. Nothing specific—just a general advisory that the ceremony may not proceed as planned and that the bride's safety is the priority."
I stare at him. "You're annoyingly good at this."
His mouth does that thing. That barely-there curve that isn't a smile but makes my stomach flip anyway.
"What about contingencies?" I push. "What if Blake finds out beforehand?"
"He won't. He's too arrogant to suspect anything."
"But if—"
"Then Natalie pulls me aside and we pivot. Private confrontation. Evidence delivered to the families. Less dramatic, but equally effective."
"What if the audio doesn't play?"
"Natalie reads a statement instead. We have printed transcripts in the evidence packet. She holds up the page and reads his own words."
"What if it gets physical? Not Blake—what if someone else—"
"Jane." He leans forward. Forearms on the table, close enough that I can smell his soap and something underneath it that's justhim—warm skin and salt and the faint tang of sweat from this afternoon.
"I played professional hockey for twelve years. I've taken hits from men who outweigh me by thirty pounds. I've dropped gloves with enforcers who wanted to end my season. I've protected teammates, goalies, and a sixty-year-old coach who wandered onto the ice during a line brawl."
He holds my gaze.
"Nobodyis getting to Natalie. Nobody is getting to you. Not tomorrow. Not while I'm standing."
He said it with the same quiet certainty he uses when he saysI've got youin the dark.
"Okay," I say. My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
We look at each other in the dying afternoon light, and the question I didn't ask earlier pulses once under my ribs.
Do I fit in this?
I shove it down. Pick up my pen.
"Okay, here’s the timeline. Final version." I show him the notes.
West reads it. Nods once. "Clean."
"We work very well together," I say and immediately wish I hadn't.
Because it's true—we're perfect together, in bed and out of it, in chaos and in control. And after tomorrow, that perfection expires.
His eyes find mine. Hold.
Long enough to make me wonder how long this lasts.
