Holt.
Could that be . . . someone related to Thayer?
Rowan sat up straighter.
She vaguely remembered him mentioning a sister once or twice during long days on set. He’d said she lived in Kentucky somewhere. Maybe outside of Louisville. Younger sister. Teacher.
The email had arrived two days ago, and the subject line:Please read. It’s about my brother.
Wes had been awake for nearly two hours before the rest of the house started stirring. He’d waited until a few minutes ago to come downstairs, however.
Caleb had offered to let him stay here after the break-in at Hollow House. He’d said they had the extra space. Wes had considered the offer before accepting.
He currently didn’t have his truck, so driving was a problem. But really, the thought of being closer to Rowan had sealed the deal. He felt better, felt like Rowan was safer, when he could keep an eye on her.
He wouldn’t tell her that, of course.
Now, morning sunlight spilled across the kitchen table in long gold bands, warming the stack of paperwork spread aroundhis laptop. Security maps. Camera-placement sketches. Cost estimates for upgraded fencing along the tree line.
The proposal for Refuge Cove had started as a straightforward consulting job.
Now it felt personal.
Remington lay beneath the table near Wes’s feet, occasionally lifting his head whenever movement sounded elsewhere in the house. Then he settled again.
Wes leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand across his jaw as he reviewed the newest perimeter layout.
The property had too many blind spots. Too many wooded approaches. Too many places someone patient could watch from without being seen.
A soft sound on the stairs pulled his attention up.
Rowan stepped into the kitchen carrying her laptop against her chest.
Wes felt the now-familiar tightening low in his chest before he could stop it.
She wore jeans and a cream-colored sweater that hung loose at one shoulder. Her hair remained pulled back carelessly, though a few strands had escaped around her face.
But her face held his attention.
She looked pale, distracted, and shaken in a quieter way than fear.
Remington rose and crossed to her, rubbing against her legs before she absently scratched behind his ears.
“Morning,” Wes said.
“Morning.” She glanced at the paperwork spread across the table. “You’ve been working awhile?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
The corner of her mouth moved faintly. “Same.”
Wes noticed the way her grip tightened against the edge of the laptop.
Something had happened, he realized.
“What is it?” he murmured.
Rowan hesitated. Then she crossed the kitchen and set the laptop on the table beside his paperwork. “I finally checked my email.”
