“That sounds like respecting your answer and making my own decision about where I park.”
Sloane sighs. “Cole.”
“What?”
A tiny, absurd laugh slips out of me. Everyone looks at me again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pressing my fingers briefly over my mouth. “It’s been a strange few days.”
Cole’s eyes soften. I can’t look at that softness for long.
“Forty-eight hours,” I say finally.
Sloane nods once. “Forty-eight hours. We reassess after that.”
Chapter 7
Cole
By the time Sloane and Eli leave, the cottage is quiet in that uneasy way houses get after too many serious people have stood in one room talking about danger. Kara locks the door behind them before I can do it.
She checks the deadbolt once, then looks over her shoulder at me as if expecting me to correct her form or tell her she missed something. I don’t. The house has already been swept, the locks checked, the exterior walked, the sight lines noted. She doesn’t need another man turning her temporary safe place into a tactical diagram. Tonight, she needs to breathe.
I set my duffel in the guest room, leaving the door open. It’s just another base, not bedroom. I’ve slept in vehicles, on floors, on rooftops, and once inside a storage closet behind a hotel kitchen because it had the best line of sight to a service entrance.
The room is clean and coastal, too many soft blues and white linens for a man like me, but it will do. Kara stands in the hallway with her phone clutched in one hand.
“I have three missed calls. Five texts. All from Vanessa,” she says softly.
I saw the name earlier. Heard the way Kara said it. Best friend. Safe person. The one she wants to call when the world tilts.
“You can call her,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Sloane said not to give details.”
“Then don’t give details.”
“That sounds easy when you say it.”
“Most things do.”
Her mouth moves like she almost smiles, but doesn’t quite make it. “I’m going to take it in the bedroom.”
I nod. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Not listening?”
“Not unless you scream.”
She lets out a small huff of laughter before she turns away. I wait until her bedroom door closes before moving back through the main room. The cottage smells like salt air with something warmer beneath it. Her, maybe. The place should feel like any other short-term rental I’ve worked out of, but it doesn’t. The analytical side of me wants to knowwhy.
I’ve had clients in beach houses before. Wealthy men who thought money was armor. Actresses hiding from ex-husbands. Executives who wanted discreet protection but still posted enough clues online for any half-trained idiot to find them. I know how to stand close without getting personal. How to watch without staring. How to become part of the furniture until trouble walks in and learns it picked the wrong room.
Kara is different. I don’t like different. Different can male men sloppy.
From the bedroom, her voice carries faintly. Not words at first, just tone. She does sound tired, apologetic, but careful. Then clearer.
“I’m okay. I promise.”
