Page 11 of Sawyer
“And what is ‘this,’ exactly?” I breathe.
“A tactical nightmare.” He leans in until his breath ghosts across my lips. “And the only thing I’ve thought about since I met you.”
The world narrows to willow rustle and heartbeat thunder. I rise on tiptoe, eyes half-lidded. His fingers tense, as if weighing consequences.
Footsteps crunch on gravel—Edgar, announcing dinner. Sawyer’s hand falls away and I swallow disappointment—and relief?—like bitter wine.
He clears his throat. “We should?—”
“Yeah.” I hug my arms around myself. “Focaccia waits for no one.”
We head inside. The charge between us doesn’t dissipate. Instead, it coils, simmering, a fuse burning slow. I know two things with blinding clarity: Someone out there wants me afraid—and someone right here makes me feel anything but.
Somehow, I suspect the second danger might be the harder one to survive.
5
Sawyer
I’m pacing the terrace outside the dining room the way most people scroll their phones—endlessly, compulsively—because distance and night air are the only things keeping me from replaying the garden incident on loop. One reckless heartbeat, one brush of hair from Cam’s soft skin, and all the protocols I live by crumpled like tissue.
My pulse jolted, and her breath hitched. The sky, already gold with late afternoon, slipped into dusky rose— and I almost did something irreparable.
Almost.
A throat clears behind me. Edgar stands framed in the French doors, silver tray poised like a diplomatic flag.
“Dinner is served, Mr. Maddox.”
Showtime.I roll my shoulders, carve professionalism back onto my features, and step inside.
Tonight’s meal is seared salmon with citrus couscous—Camille’s idea of “light,” Edgar’s idea of “fussy,” my idea ofone more arena where I have to stare at her mouth without acting on impulse.
She arrives barefoot, a breezy linen dress skimming her knees, auburn braid undone so loose waves tumble over her shoulders. No paint tonight—just dewy skin and those kaleidoscope eyes that see more than they should.
I hold her chair. She thanks me, voice low, and the soft brush of her arm along mine sparks like a live current. We eat, make small talk about tomorrow’s mural project. I keep my replies clipped, neutral; she frowns as if she can feel every syllable I swallow instead of speak.
By the time Edgar clears plates, my appetite is as deserted as a demilitarized zone. Cam excuses herself to prep supplies for the morning. I linger at the table, monitoring her retreat down the hall—hips swaying, bare soles whispering over Persian wool—and know I’m teetering on the edge of something no Kevlar can deflect.
I fish out my phone, thumb hovering over Dean’s number.Request reassignmentflickers like an emergency exit sign. It would be the smart move. Smart moves keep assets safe and operators out of headlines. Then a second image pushes in—Camille flanked by some other agent, Riggs or Jax or maybe even Dean Maddox himself. Someone else shadowing her laughter, someone else catching her when the world turns ugly hell-bent.
Acid churns in my gut. No. I want my hands on this detail—literally,figuratively, all of it. If that means I white-knuckle restraint, so be it.
I dial Dean anyway.
He picks up on the third ring, voice gravelly with late-night paperwork and overpriced espresso. “Talk to me.”
“Need a second operator tomorrow. Public mural site, twenty minors, open street access on two sides, one service alley in back.”
Silence while he scrolls mental rosters. “You requesting Jax?”
“Riggs.” The name comes out before I can second-guess it. Riggs is blunt force married to dry wit—and crucially, he’ll keep his eyes on threats, not on Cam.
Dean chuckles. “Ah, you want muscleandmanners.”
“I want coverage,” I correct, maybe too quickly. “Riggs is local, familiar with SP street grids. Give me the green light and I’ll send coordinates.”
“You got it. He’ll be wheels-up at oh-six, meet you on-site by eight-thirty.” Dean’s pause lengthens, turns weighted. “Everything else good?”
