She steps out in a pair of jeans that were not designed for federal witness protection and a thin sweater the color of bourbon. Hair in two thick braids down her back. Big gold hoops. Boots that are cute and completely useless for mountain terrain.
She's got one of those faces you don't look away from easy. Full mouth. Sharp cheekbones. Brown skin warm against the afternoon light. And she's looking at me like I'm a piece of furniture she's deciding whether to rearrange.
"You must be Grayson."
Her voice is honey and bourbon and something else I don't have a word for yet.
"Mercer. Gray."
"Simone." She slings a duffel over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. "My brother says a lot of things about you. Most of them grunts."
"Sounds about right."
Ben gets out, hands me a second duffel and a backpack, gives me a nod.
"All clear on the route?" I ask.
"Tail-free. Stopped twice, clean both times."
"Good. Get back safe."
He does a three-point turn and rolls out. I watch the dust plume until it's gone.
When I turn back, Simone is standing at the foot of the porch steps looking up at me. Arms crossed. Chin tipped.
"So," she says. "You gonna stare at the road all day or you gonna show me where I'm sleeping for the next seventy-two hours."
"Forty-eight."
"What?"
"Seventy-two hours was the original ask. Marcus got you an extra day because the paper's threat assessment team wants more time."
Her jaw tightens.
"He told you that before he told me."
"Yeah."
"Of course he did."
She breezes past me up the steps and I get a hit of whatever she's wearing, warm and clean like the air after rain, and my body registers it before my brain has a chance to shut that down.
I clear my throat.
"Rules," I say.
She turns on the porch. One eyebrow up.
"Excuse me?"
"You stay in the cabin unless I say otherwise. You don't use your phone without checking with me first. You tell me before you open any door, including the bathroom."
She laughs.
Actually laughs.
"Oh, sweetheart," she says. "This is gonna be a long weekend for you."
