The folder waited on the table.
Juliette Wilder was here for a week.
The fence had been tested.
And tomorrow morning, she would likely do something idiotic like go for a run like this terrain was a treadmill with scenery.
I should have felt nothing about that.
Instead, I found myself planning routes. Safer ground. Better visibility. A way to keep her from wandering.
I shut the file and slid it back into its envelope.
Then I turned off the lantern and lay down, listening to the bush breathe.
Somewhere on the ridge, her suite light stayed on.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't fall asleep immediately.
Chapter 4
Giraffes, Dung, and Due Process
JULIETTE
Thefirstsoundofthe morning was the engine.
It rolled low through the trees outside my suite just before dawn. The air was already heavy and warm, sticking to my skin before the sun cleared the Tamboti trees. The horizon was a smudge of unblended charcoal.
There were no other noises, only the faint stir of wind through the buffel grass and the waking calls of birds threading through the trees.
Nick’s jeep waited at the clearing’s edge, half swallowed by shadows. He stood beside it, a dark silhouette against the matte green metal. He didn't look at his watch. He didn't look at me. He just held the space.
Yesterday he hadn’t bothered getting out of the jeep at all.
Today he had.
Noted.
Even at this distance the stillness gave him away. One boot crossed casually over the other, arms folded loosely, the radio at his shoulder dark for once. His chin angled toward the deck.
I stepped down the stone path, boots quiet against the grit.
The leather notebook rode in my left hand, pen clipped inside the spine.
Nick straightened as I approached. He didn't step back to give me the path. He stayed anchored to the grit, forcing me to either break stride or pass close enough to feel the heat of his skin.
I chose the latter.
He smelled of woodsmoke and mint over clean soap—a dry, masculine scent that didn’t belong in the damp morning air.
His gaze moved once from my boots to the notebook.
“Morning,” he said, the British edge sharper this early.
“Morning.”
His attention returned to the notebook.
