Page 6 of Freeing Savannah

Behind him, Kandy sucked her teeth. “Ugh.Thereshe is,” she said, venom laced in every syllable. “Little Miss Vanilla. Bet she sleeps in matching pajama sets. She’s got no edge. And absolutely no style.”

Voodoo stood without a word.

“Seriously?” Kandy called after him, tone incredulous. “That’swho you’re waiting for?”

He didn’t respond. Just walked toward the girl who used to climb trees with him and smelled like berry shampoo.

“Savi?” he said, quieter than he meant. Her scent reached him and he took it in. Still like berries, but with something a touch more sophisticated. Something like champagne.

She smiled. “You still call me that?”

And for the first time in a long damn while, his chest stopped aching.

CHAPTER 2

The heavy silenceof mounting pressure bore down on Savannah as she climbed out of the gleaming black town car. Her eyes scanned the hangar. The sleek black private jet waiting like a coiled threat.

Striding across the tarmac, the intense heat radiated upward, creating a shimmering distortion in the air, a wave of heat that curled up and under her collar, making her feel uncomfortably hot. Jet engines idled in the distance, a faint smell of jet fuel mixing with the hot air rising from their exhaust.

Savannah’s stylish boots struck the concrete with practiced calm, the rhythm of someone used to pretending she belonged wherever she walked. But her pulse was out of sync, drumming a little too fast in her chest. Maybe it was the tour, weeks of diplomatic concerts in politically sensitive regions. Or maybe it was just knowing the Senator had inserted himself again, dictating her life like she was still thirteen years old.

“Non-negotiable,” he’d said. “I don’t care how independent you think you are, Savannah. You’re a headline waiting to happen. You’ll have protection.”

She didn’t want a bodyguard.

She wanted a chance to have control.

With a tug, she opened the door to the waiting area. Inside, the area was quiet, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights, and her massive suitcase rattling behind her as her driver brought it in. It smelled like metal, jet fuel, and obligation. Clean. Controlled. Lavish. Overly masculine.

Exactly the kind of environment her stepfather lived for.

Her jaw flexed as she scanned the space, still irritated that the Senator had gone against her wishes in hiring a bodyguard..

“You’re the daughter of a United States Senator,” he’d said. “Security is not only for optics but alsoliability mitigation.” As if she were a hostage to her own career. As if the world diplomatic tour she’d spent a year helping to craft, every venue, every diplomatic invite, every note, was some chaotic stunt he needed to micromanage and sanitize.

She adjusted her sunglasses to sit atop her head, then continued to move further into the room. And then, of course, Kandy appeared.

Red heels. Sunglasses too big for her face. Designer luggage she didn’t lift herself. She leaned against a pillar like she was waiting for paparazzi to burst in.

Savannah’s stomach twisted.

Kandy lifted her sunglasses and gave her a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Well, well. Look who showed up to play diplomat Barbie.” Kandy gave her a sugarcoated once-over and smirked. “Savannah. You look . . . efficient.”

Savannah matched her smile with one of her own. “And you look like a walking lawsuit. How comforting.”

“Please,” Kandy drawled, pushing off the pillar with a flip of her hair. “I’m curious. How is it that you make pink look so tragic?”

Savannah exhaled through her nose, already tired, alreadydone.

She turned, looking for someone in a suit, maybe dark sunglasses, the kind of guy the Senator would’ve hired from a mercenary firm with a three-letter acronym.

Instead, her breath caught.

Not in fear.

In memory.

He was standing behind Kandy, hands at his sides, posture relaxed but alert.

---