“I can’t think about that right now.” She flipped through order forms without really seeing them. “I have forty dozen specialty pastries, three gingerbread houses to construct, and the centerpiece mountain for the main display.”
“Okay, but promise you’ll be careful?”
“I’m always careful.”
Except when I drive into cartel territory and witness a murder.
Sophie didn’t look convinced but let it drop. “Want me to stay after closing tonight? Help with prep?”
“No, go home at the regular time. No point in both of us being exhausted.”
The bell chimed as the door opened, and Brie’s heart jumped. It was just Mrs. Chase with her umbrella, coming for her weekly order of dinner rolls.
Get it together,she told herself.You can’t jump every time the door opens.
But as she packaged Mrs. Chase’s order, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching. Through the rain-streaked windows, every shadow could be a threat. Every car that drove slowly past could be the cartel.
She forced a smile and got back to work, ignoring the way her bear kept sniffing the air for pine and leather, searching for a mate who’d only come to her when she became relevant to his mission.
Three weeks until Winter Festival. She could hold it together that long. She had to.
Chapter
Eight
Surveillance of Sweet Summit Bakery—DayOne.
0400: Brie arrived. Parked on the street. No scan of surroundings. Just reached for her water bottle and headed inside like the world was safe.
Hunter made a note in his surveillance log. He sat in the darkness, watching the bakery’s lights flicker on one by one as Brie began her day. Through the windows, he could see her moving through the shop. Hair up in a messy bun, tying on her apron. She looked tired. His wolf whined, wanting to comfort her.
0545: Jake arrived. Good. She wasn’t alone.
0547: Sophie arrived, laughing about something as she entered.
0600: First customer.
Hunter had learned patience in the mountains of Afghanistan, waiting days for a target to appear in a scope. But watching his mate through the bakery windows while she remained oblivious to danger tested him in ways war never had.
Day Two.
Hunter parked near the entrance to the alley behind the bakery with sight lines to both exits. The rain turned everything gray, drops streaming down his windshield like the whole world was crying.
Brie made a delivery run at lunch. Hunter followed three cars back. The bakery van pulled into the Fate Mountain Lodge, and Hunter parked where he could watch. She emerged twenty minutes later with empty boxes, and a bright smile for the valet who helped her load them.
That night, he watched her lock up, Sophie walking her to her car. Good. At least she was taking some precautions. He followed her home, watching until her apartment lights went on, then off two hours later.
Only then did he allow himself to go home, catch some sleep, and start again.
Day Three.
The black SUV appeared at 0700.
Hunter was in his Ram, parked across the street, when the Chevy Tahoe rolled past and pulled into a spot in front of the bakery. Nevada plates. Windows tinted dark. The driver never got out. Hunter’s every instinct screamed it was a threat. He pulled out his phone, snapped a photo of the plates, and called Axel.
“Need a plate run. Nevada tags, Charlie-Tango-Four-Seven-Three-Nine.”
“Give me thirty seconds...” He heard keyboard clicks on the other end. “Registered to Harvey Morrison, age 92, Las Vegas address.”
