Cal: Stay sharp. Report in at 0900.
I silence the phone and slide it back into my pocket, jaw tight.
Isabella catches the movement and smiles, slow and knowing. “Your team checking up on you already? Let me guess, they’re warning you not to terrify the delicate art curator.”
“Something like that,” I mutter.
She reaches for another biscuit. “I fought back last night. Whatever this protection detail looks like, we do it my way, too. I need it to be a partnership.”
I lean forward, voice dropping low. “You push too hard, I push back. Understand?”
Her cheeks flush the faintest pink, but she doesn’t retreat. The air between us feels charged with challenge and something hotter. For one dangerous second, I imagine reaching across the table instead of laying down rules.
I shut the thought down hard. This is a job. She is a client. I will not let emotions compromise the mission.
Chapter Three - Isabella
Morning sunlight filters through the tall windows of my cottage, casting warm golden patches across the polished hardwood floors and the pale blue walls lined with Lowcountry art. I stand in the center of the gallery room, the front parlor, which I converted into a workspace shortly after moving to Tidehaven. The space still carries the faint scent of fresh paint and the ever-present salt air drifting in from the marsh outside.
My emerald dress from last night lies ruined in a bag by the door. I refuse to let the memory of the heist linger. There’s work to do.
I move between the remaining pieces I brought here before the gala, cataloging each one with a clipboard in hand. Smaller paintings lean against the wall in neat rows while several antique sea glass sculptures rest on velvet cloths atop the wide oak table. I note every detail. I write down the condition, provenance, and insurance value. My pen is moving steadily across the paper.
The front door opens with a quiet creak. Jax Harlan steps inside, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and quiet intensity. I wonder how he got a key, but I decide not to question him.
He’s wearing a different shirt, the fabric stretching across his chest, and I wonder if he left to change.
He scans the room in one sweeping glance before his gaze settles on me. He’s been outside since we returned from breakfast, keeping watch as promised. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw only adds to the rugged edge he carries.
“Morning,” I say, setting the clipboard down. “I see you decided to come inside after all. I was beginning to think you planned to guard outside like a statue all day.”
He closes the door and leans against the frame, arms crossed. “Perimeter is clear for now. I checked the marsh side and the street twice.”
I arch an eyebrow, unable to resist. “Do you ever smile, Reaper, or is that classified information?”
His expression remains stoic, but something flickers in those gray eyes, a tiny hint of amusement he quickly buries. “Smiling doesn’t keep you safe.”
I laugh softly and turn back to the table, picking up one of the smaller sea glass pieces to examine it under the light. “Fair point.”
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he moves farther into the room, his boots quiet on the hardwood despite his size. I can feel his gaze on me as I work, cataloging the inventory with quick, precise notes. He watches the way I handle each piece, the careful way I turn them to check for damage, the way I cross-reference my notes against the digital list on my tablet. He is assessing more than just the art. He is assessing me.
“You’re thorough,” he says after a long moment, his voice low and rough. “Most people would still be rattled after last night. You’re already back to work.”
I glance up at him, meeting his eyes head-on. “Rattled doesn’t get the collection ready for the actual gala in two weeks. Last night was just a preview. The insurance adjuster is coming by later, and I need to know exactly what was damaged or taken beyond the centerpiece. These pieces tell stories that matter to this town. I won’t let last night erase them.”
He nods once, slow and approving. The small acknowledgment lands heavier than it should. I turn back to the table before he can see the faint flush rising in my cheeks.
We fall into a strange rhythm over the next hour. I continue my inventory while he moves around the cottage like a shadow, checking locks on windows, testing the back door that leads to the small garden overlooking the marsh, and occasionally glancing at the street through the front curtains. The silence between us is not uncomfortable, but it hums with awareness. Every time I reach for something on a high shelf, I feel his eyes on me. Every time he shifts his weight, I become conscious of how much space he takes up in my usually empty home.
At one point, I hold up a delicate sea glass sculpture shaped like a breaking wave. “This one is one of my favorites. The artist lives just two streets over. She’s eighty-three and still gathers every piece by hand along the shoreline. Losing something like this would have broken my heart.”
Jax steps closer, studying the piece in my hands. His presence radiates heat. “You know every story behind these.”
“I make it my business to,” I reply, setting the sculpture down gently. “It makes a difference to both the artist and the collector. Not that there aren’t some who just want it so someone else can’t have it.”
He watches me for another long beat, his eyes tracing the line of my neck before flicking back to my face. The air grows thicker.
My phone buzzes on the table. I pick it up and scan the message from the insurance representative confirming his arrival time. “He’ll be here in forty minutes. I should finish these notes before he arrives.”
