Page 11 of Her Mountain Man Protector

"I'm stretching my legs."

"You're staying in the truck until I say otherwise."

"There it is. Management."

"There it is. The reason you're still talking."

She leaves her hand on the latch anyway, eyes on the diner window where a waitress is pouring coffee for a man in a dark jacket who hasn't touched his mug. Oakley sees it the same second I do. Her voice drops.

"Hawthorne."

"I see him."

"Helix?"

"Or a local who got paid to watch the road. Either way, he clocked the truck."

The man in the window turns his head. Our eyes meet across Main Street like the fog decided to pick a side.

I put the truck back in gear. "Stay belted. We're not done moving."

"I thought town was the safe part."

"Town is the crowded part. Safe is a word I don't use until I put you somewhere I control."

Oakley sits back, camera in her lap, mouth curved in a way that isn't sweet. "Then drive, Colt. And try not to enjoy giving me orders."

"I don't have to try."

I pull away from the curb and take us deeper into Woodbridge Falls, past the diner and the watching window, toward the side streets where a blue truck can still disappear if the mountain man driving it doesn't let a photographer open the door first.

4

Oakley

Colt doesn't take us deeper into town for long. He loops the block once, slow enough that I can count the parked trucks, then cuts behind the diner and kills the engine where the dumpsters hide the faded blue hood from Main Street.

"We're going in," he says.

I stare at him. "The man in the window. The one who clocked us. That diner."

"That diner has a back booth and enough locals to make a clean grab sloppy. We're regrouping where I can see every entrance. You're leaving the yellow in the truck."

"It's cold."

"It's visible from the street. Hoodie stays. Jacket stays here."

I want to argue because arguing with him is the only thing I still own. I peel the jacket off anyway and drop it on the seat. The navy hoodie is thinner. The air off the river finds my wrists. I keep the camera. I keep the drive in the pocket of my hoodie. If he tries to separate me from either one, we're going to have a louder conversation than this alley deserves.

He peels off his jacket. “Here,” he says, thrusting it at me.

“Wow. How chivalrous.”

He watches me put it on, and then tuck the camera away, jaw tight, that heavy mountain-man scowl doing overtime. "You follow my lead inside. You don't photograph the room. You don't announce Chicago. You drink whatever they pour and you let me talk."

"I can talk."

"I noticed. That's the problem."