“Bee,” I say quietly, my voice cutting through the storm’s roar. “You need to sit down. Conserve your energy. The power is out for good, and this storm isn’t letting up anytime soon.”
She stops mid-pace and turns toward me, the too-big hoodie slipping off one shoulder again. “I can’t just sit still, Jax. My mind keeps spinning. If big names are involved, a hurricane won’t make them forget about me or what I know.”
I cross the room in a few strides, stopping close enough to feel the warmth coming off her body despite the damp chill in the air. The lodge feels smaller with every passing hour, the air pressing in tighter. “Worrying won’t change anything tonight, but if it will help you settle, let’s look at those notes together. Two heads are better than one.”
Her eyes light up at the suggestion, and she moves quickly to the kitchen table, spreading her research papers across the surface with quick, graceful movements. I pull up the second chair and sit beside her, our shoulders brushing as we lean in under the lantern light. The closeness is immediate and electric. My shirt is still slightly damp from the rain, outlining the hard lines of my chest and shoulders, while her hoodie molds softly to her curves in the humid air.
We start slow, heads bent together over the handwritten notes and photocopied provenance documents. She points to a seriesof faint markings she sketched from memory, her finger tracing the pattern across the paper. Our hands brush accidentally when I reach for the next page, and neither of us pulls away right away. The contact lingers a second longer than it should, sending heat straight through me. She notices. I see the faint flush rise in her cheeks, but she keeps her voice steady as she explains the hidden compartment technique some Lowcountry artists used.
“The ledger isn’t just a list of sales,” she says, voice low and focused as she pulls another sheet closer. “It’s a coded record of black-market dealings that go back decades. The painting’s frame was designed to hide a small metal cylinder, an old smuggling trick from the 1940s. Inside that cylinder would be a small leather-bound book, pages filled with entries that look like ordinary art transactions on the surface. But the real information is layered underneath.”
I lean in closer, my arm pressing against hers as I study the sketches and the pages of the ledger. “What kind of information?”
She turns another page, her knee brushing my thigh under the table. “Names of Tidehaven’s oldest coastal families. People like the Thibodeauxs, the Harrells, even some of the council members who smile at the Sea Glass Gala every year. Dates of transfers that don’t match public records. Amounts that are way too round to be legitimate art sales. It’s classic money laundering. Art is the perfect cover.”
Her finger traces a column of numbers she has circled in red ink. “Look at this pattern. Every third entry has a small symbol in the margin, a tiny wave with three lines underneath. I think that’s a code for the type of goods being moved. Not just money. Possibly stolen artifacts or connections to recent coastal heists.”
We shift the chairs even closer until our knees are pressed together under the table. The lantern light flickers across her face, highlighting the gold in her eyes as she gets more animated.I point to a sequence of letters that look random at first glance. “These aren’t buyer initials. They’re coordinates. I’ve seen this kind of grid code before. If we overlay the dates with the symbols, it might give us a map of drop points along the coast.”
She nods eagerly, her shoulder now fully against mine. The thieves could be one of the families listed here, someone who has been using the art world for years. Maybe the ledger ties directly to whoever hired the crew that hit the pier.”
We work side by side for what feels like hours, the night deepening around us. Papers shift under our hands as we cross-reference, argue gently over interpretations, and piece together fragments. Every time she leans forward to point something out, her hair brushes my arm. Every time I reach for a different document, our fingers touch and linger. The comfort between us grows with every shared breakthrough, every quiet laugh when a pattern finally clicks. Her thigh stays pressed to mine now, warm through the hoodie fabric. My arm rests along the back of her chair, close enough that I can feel the steady rhythm of her breathing.
In between working on the documents, she tells me more about her move to Tidehaven. How a bad breakup in Charleston left her needing a place where she could rebuild without the constant reminders of what she had lost. Her voice softens with the confession, vulnerability mixing with that sharp wit I have come to crave.
I listen, then share a sliver more than I ever planned, admitting that the weight of every mission I couldn’t perfectly protect still haunts me. She does not offer empty comfort. She simply nods, her hand resting lightly on my forearm for a long moment, warm and steady, her thumb brushing my skin in a way that feels anything but casual.
The pull between us deepens as the night goes on. We are no longer just two people decoding a ledger. We are partners in thissmall lantern-lit world, shoulders pressed together, heads bent close, breaths mingling as we lean over the same page. When she reaches across me for a different sketch, her breast brushes my arm, and the contact sends a spark straight through me. I feel her curves outlined by the soft fabric of the hoodie. My muscles stay taut with restraint, but the cracks are widening. I want to pull her into my lap, to taste her mouth, to let the heat that has been building all day finally break free.
Isabella yawns suddenly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The sound is soft, tired, and it snaps something protective inside me awake.
“That’s enough for tonight,” I say, voice low and firm. “You need sleep, Bee. Bed. Now.”
She shakes her head, but another yawn escapes before she can stop it. “I’m fine. We’re so close to figuring out the next code sequence. One more page, and I think we can map the first drop point.”
I stand and gently take her elbow, guiding her toward the bedroom. “You’re exhausted. The storm isn’t going anywhere, and neither is the research. Bed.”
She lets me lead her, but when we reach the doorway, she turns and catches my hand. Her hazel eyes meet mine in the flickering lantern light, gold flecks bright with something deeper than fatigue. “Just for a minute, Reaper. Lie down with me. I know you won’t sleep on that couch anyway, and I don’t want to be alone right now.”
I know I shouldn’t. Every rule I’ve built, every lesson from years of close protection, screams at me to step back, to keep the line clear. She is my mission. My client. Giving in could compromise everything, but the pull toward her is stronger than me. Her hand in mine feels warm and certain, her eyes steady on my face, that oversized hoodie slipping off her shoulder again and revealing the elegant curve of her neck.
I hesitate for a second longer, then lower myself onto the bed beside her. She shifts closer immediately, curling into my side like she belongs there. Her head rests on my chest, one hand settling lightly over my heart. I feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the soft press of her body against mine.
I know I shouldn’t be here. I know this is dangerous. But in this lantern-lit lodge, with the hurricane screaming outside and my Bee warm and trusting against me, I can’t fight her pull. My arm slides around her shoulders, holding her close, and for the first time in years, the weight I carry feels a little lighter.
Chapter Seven - Isabella
The worst of the hurricane has finally passed, leaving behind a heavy, relentless rain that drums steadily against the roof. The wind has died down to a moaning gust rather than the freight-train roar of the night before, but the storm still holds us in its grip. Water sheets off the elevated lodge in constant rivers, and the dense pinelands beyond the windows churn with angry, muddy swells. Inside, the battery-operated lanterns continue their soft, steady glow, though one has begun to dim as its power fades. The air feels thick with humidity and the lingering scent of damp wood and pine.
I wake slowly, warm and cocooned against a solid wall of muscle. Jax’s arm is draped heavily across my waist, his breathing deep and even beneath my cheek. Sometime in the night, I had curled fully into him, my leg tangled with his, the oversized S&S hoodie riding up around my thighs. Heat floods my face as the memory of how we ended up here rushes back—the long hours working on the ledger, the quiet confessions, theway his fingers had brushed my hair, the undeniable pull that made him lie down “just for a minute.” He had stayed, and I had slept better than I had in a long time.
I shift carefully, not wanting to wake him yet, but his arm tightens instinctively, pulling me closer. A low, sleepy rumble vibrates through his chest. “Bee.”
The nickname, spoken in that rough morning voice, sends a shiver through me. I tilt my head up and find his eyes already open, watching me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. The light plays across the hard planes of his face, highlighting the stubble along his jaw and the faint lines of exhaustion mixed with something warmer.
“Morning,” I whisper, suddenly very aware of how intimately we are tangled. “The storm sounds quieter.”
He listens for a moment, then nods once. “Wind’s dropped. Rain’s still heavy, but the worst has passed. I need to do a perimeter sweep. Stay inside and keep the door locked.”
