Page 18 of The Maverick

Her face paled.

“That’s him.”

“You’re sure?”

“He was too familiar. Asked off-script questions. Touched my shoulder when he didn’t need to.”

“You didn’t tell security?”

“It didn’t feel like a threat. Just awkward. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

Hawke’s fingers curled into fists. He forced himself to stay calm. “He’s the same guy from the Dallas and Denver footage.”

“I didn’t connect it until just now. He was clean cut for the panel. Different haircut. No hat. But it’s the same build. Same eyes.”

Hawke felt his chest tighten with something heavier than frustration. Guilt. Fury. Something primal. He’d let her walkinto that event alone. He should’ve been there. He should’ve known.

“He’s been circling for months,” he said. “Building access. Testing your reactions. Getting closer.”

She sat on the edge of the chair, her knuckles white. “Do you think he’s done more than watch?”

Hawke knelt in front of her, his hands braced on her knees.

“I think he’s escalating. But he hasn’t made a physical move yet. When he does, I’ll be there.”

She looked at him, wide-eyed, vulnerable in a way she rarely let herself be.

“I don’t want to live my life afraid.”

“You won’t be,” he said. “I’ll find him, Vanessa. I swear it.”

His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t posture. But she leaned toward him, like she believed him, like she was finally letting herself feel it. Like neither of them was going anywhere. Not this time.

And Hawke? He was already planning how to make Brenner disappear from her life—permanently.

5

VANESSA

Vanessa couldn’t stop herself.

Pacing barefoot across the polished wood floor of Hawke’s cabin, she pushed her boundaries like they were dominoes—flicking each one closer and closer to collapse. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, but it wasn’t nerves that were the cause. It was something far more dangerous.

Curiosity. Frustration. And a building need that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with the man currently pretending she did not affect him at all.

He was at the table again, laptop open, phone buzzing occasionally beside it. An entire threat analysis was unfolding in front of him, and he hadn’t said more than five words to her in the last hour. She hated it. Hated the calm. Hated the control. Hated that he made her feel seen without even looking at her.

So she did what she always did when things got too tight inside her chest… she poked the bear.

“You always keep it this cold in here?” she asked, arching an eyebrow as she passed behind his chair for the third time. “Or is this some subtle dominance tactic to freeze the brat into submission?”

“No one’s making you walk around in a shirt two sizes too small,” he said, not looking up.

She glanced down. The faded Iron Spur T-shirt she’d pulled from her overnight bag hugged her hips and clung to her chest, the hem barely brushing the waistband of her lounge shorts.

“Maybe I like the view,” she said, slow and sweet, circling to face him.

He finally looked at her… not at her mouth… not her legs, but right into her eyes. Steady. Unflinching. The kind of look that could silence any room—and used to undo her in ten seconds flat.

---