Chapter Ten
~ Carter ~
The second we stepped out of the truck, I started cataloguing exits. Not because I thought Barrett would make a scene—he was a Steele, and we didn’t do scenes—but because the anticipation had dialed up every nerve ending in my body until I was vibrating.
The air outside the diner was damp, all recent rain and the tang of motor oil from the blacktop. Macon moved beside me with his usual squared-off calm, but every few steps his hand would ghost to the small of my back. Not quite a warning. More like a reminder: I’m here, and you’re not facing this alone.
The Mercedes slid into the lot on a spill of gravel, slick and black as a threat. It parked right across from us, facing the door. I could see Barrett inside, checking his phone even as he killed the engine. The old, unbroken confidence in the tilt of his jaw.
It occurred to me then that nothing I could say or do would ever surprise him, not really. He’d grown up in the same house as me—just a different floor, a different expectation.
Same pressure, different shapes.
My hands were shaking, so I buried them in the kangaroo pouch of my sweater. Macon, all six-foot-whatever of him, blocked half my sight line, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there like a wall.
I loved him for that.
Barrett got out of the car in one fluid motion. His suit was the kind of blue that only looked expensive if you knew what you were looking at. The hair was perfect, combed back so tight I bet it’d leave an impression on the upholstery.
He wore sunglasses, even though the clouds were trying hard to make sunlight a rumor. His shoes were city shoes, alreadypicking up flecks of mud from the lot, which would have driven him nuts if he’d let himself think about it.
He didn’t see us at first. Then he did. The sunglasses came off, folded in one practiced flick, and in the fraction of a second before he put on his boardroom face, I saw something in him drop. Not like surrender, but relief, sharp and clear as the crack of a seal.
He came toward us, not fast, not slow, moving like he’d measured out every inch in advance. I felt Macon’s hand steady on my back, heat seeping through to my skin.
Barrett stopped a few feet away, eyes flicking from me to Macon and then, for a beat, down to my midsection, where the sweater couldn’t do shit to hide the fact that I was way past plausible deniability. He did a second pass, checking for anything out of place. Then he smiled, and it was so close to real it hurt.
“Carter,” he said. His voice was the same as ever: low, cultivated, precise. But softer, almost careful. “You look... different.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or run. Instead, I blurted, “Not as different as you’d think,” and immediately wanted to throttle myself.
Barrett’s eyes did this thing—a micro-flicker of amusement, maybe even pride—but then the mask settled again. “I see you brought security,” he said, nodding at Macon.
The words might have been a jab, but Macon just dipped his head, neutral as a bodyguard, and said, “Nice to meet you.” He didn’t offer a hand, just stood there, the bone and muscle of his arm an unspoken warning where it bracketed my side.
I realized then that I was holding onto Macon’s sleeve like a lifeline, my grip tight enough to stretch the fabric. I let go, tried to smooth out the sweater, and immediately put my palmover my belly instead—like maybe I could shield the baby from whatever came next.
Barrett saw the motion and hesitated. For a split second he looked just like the kid who used to cover for me at boarding school, intercepting the calls home so Dad wouldn’t find out about my panic attacks or the time I nearly got expelled for hacking the admissions database. He always knew the right lie to tell, the right voice to use, the right mask to wear.
He stepped forward, and his voice dropped to something private. “You okay?” he asked, just for me.
I nodded, but the words got jammed somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
He watched me for a second, then shifted his gaze to Macon. “Take care of him,” he said. There was no threat in it, but a weight, the kind that pressed down and left a mark even after you’d forgotten what it was supposed to mean.
Macon just said, “I will,” like it was already a done deal.
For a second, none of us moved. The world went quiet around the edges—the scrape of a semi on the highway, the clink of utensils from inside the diner, the slow drip of last night’s rain from the eaves.
Then Barrett rolled his shoulders, back in command. “Let’s get a booth,” he said. “Somewhere out of the way.”
We followed him inside. The bell over the door jangled, bright and jarring. I felt every eye in the place crawl over us, then bounce off when they recognized me, or maybe Macon, or maybe just the name on the reservation.
Barrett didn’t slow down. He steered us to the back corner, where the windows were so caked in grease you could barely see the street. We slid into the booth, me and Macon on one side, Barrett on the other.
The waitress showed up, and Barrett ordered coffee for the table before I could even remember what I wanted. Maconordered water and a black coffee. I just asked for herbal tea, because the idea of caffeine right now made my insides twist.
Barrett clasped his hands together on the tabletop, not quite hiding the tremor in his thumb. I mimicked the gesture, hoping my own shaking wasn’t obvious. Macon’s hand came to rest on my thigh, hidden by the overhang of the table, thumb tracing slow circles that made it possible to stay upright.
