Grinding my teeth as an ugly wave of jealousy washes over me, I ponder what being jealous of an imaginary woman, doing things I just made up with a man who's not mine, says about my mental state.
I reach for my coffee to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth and grimace when I realise it's gone cold, but I drink it anyway, needing the caffeine badly. I should have grabbed breakfast before coming out here, but my stomach wasn't interested. Way too early. I fish a pack of crackers from my glove box and nibble on one, more to have something to do than out of any real hunger.
My appetite still isn't what it should be, the bug I've been staving off making its presence known through a pleasant combination of hot flushes and exhaustion.
It's weird. I'm never ill. My grandmother used to say our family is strong, unnaturally so, and that's why we didn't get sick like other people. I never believed her, just assumed it was another one of her quirky ideas about our family being special.
As I struggle to keep my eyes open, I don't feel so special now.
The street is quiet. A dog walker passes. A car pulls out of a driveway three houses down. Normal morning stuff. Nothing interesting enough to keep my attention, that is, until the garage door opens, and Beau steps into the pale morning sunlight.
He's been working out. Grey tank top damp with sweat, and black shorts only coming to mid-thigh, revealing gloriouslymuscled tanned legs. He pulls his bare arms across his chest, one by one, showing off veined forearms and strong hands.
Even from here, I can see the definition in his shoulders, the way his biceps flex as he stretches. His dark hair is pushed back from his face as he stares off in the distance, expression solemn, like some kind of male fitness model sent to Black River to torment me.
When he sits down on a weight bench and leans back, powerful legs spread, my raging libido interprets it as an invitation. It takes all my willpower not to walk over there and straddle him.
I flap the front of my shirt, desperately needing to cool down. Maybe I'm not getting sick. Maybe this is early menopause, and I'm having hot flushes.
Embarrassed at myself for being such a salivating horn-dog, I sink lower in my seat and tug the peak of my cap lower.
This is surveillance. Professional surveillance. I'm not ogling.
But I'm absolutely ogling.
He heads for his truck and pops the tailgate, then disappears back inside. When he returns, he's carrying a heavy duffel bag that he swings into the bed like it weighs nothing. Then another. Then a hard case that looks like it might hold weapons and must weigh a tonne.
My half-formed plan to reason with him evaporates. He's packing for something big.
I watch him work, bending, standing on the footplate and stretching, his vest rising to reveal toned abs. I'm gathering intel, I repeat, tilting my head, as if that's going to help me get a better view.
The way he moves is methodical, efficient. Everything has its place. He straps the gear down with ease, confident in what he's doing but checking each tie twice like every good boy scout, tugging to make sure it's secure.
His forearms flex as he tightens the final strap, and I have to look away for a second. Focus, Harris. This isn't a show.
But god, it kind of is.
By the time he's finished, the truck bed is loaded and covered. My heart is racing. You'd think I just watched him strip tease. It's almost a relief when he goes back inside, and I wait, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, finally able to regain my composure.
That man. He has an effect on me that I've never experienced before, and I'm starting to realise that might be part of the reason he bugs me so much. I don't like feeling so unbalanced, completely unable to rein in my emotions around him. The second I'm in his presence, they seem to just erupt out of me. Like I have no impulse control.
Twenty minutes later, he emerges again. Showered now and dressed in dark blue jeans and a henley that skims his impressive physique, his damp hair curling at his temples. He locks up, climbs into his truck, and pulls out of the drive.
I give him a head start, then follow, careful to hang back and stay out of sight.
Beau doesn't go far. At a rest stop about forty minutes out of town, the kind truckers use, he parks next to a black SUV I don't recognize. Parking across the street, I watch as two men get out. They're built like soldiers, moving with the kind of efficiency that screams ex-military. One is tall and broad, with a thick moustache and a shaved head. The other is leaner and lighter. There's a scar running down his forearm, and a slight limp he hides well.
Beau greets them with enthusiastic handshakes and brief words I can't hear. They talk for a few minutes, leaning against the vehicles, gesturing and nodding. Then they're waving farewell and returning to their vehicles.
This is a team, preparing for a mission.
They're going after Amber. I know it.
When they pull out, with the black SUV leaving first, I make a split-second decision. Following Beau is risky. He knows my car, and he certainly knows my face. He'll spot me if I get too close as I trail him.
But these two don't know me at all, and I'm willing to bet they're all heading in the same direction.
I tuck in behind the black SUV, keeping three cars between us, and settle in for the drive, praying I'm right, and that I haven't lost my only chance to see what Beau's up to.
