Page 19 of Sawyer
“I’ll give you a corner.” She laughs softly. “Draw me a… perimeter.”
Of course she would. I take the offered brush, step in, and with two controlled pulls lay a thin, continuous arc of white that curves behind the chaos of red—subtle, almost hidden—tying disparate blasts together into a hooked shield. Not a cage. A contour. Protection disguised as motion.
She studies it, head tipped. “Always drawing lines.”
“Lines keep you safe.”
“Sometimes crossing them makes the art.” She glances sideways, lashes low. “Sometimes both.”
We’re close again. Close enough that if I angled an inch our mouths would?—
My radio chirps:Perimeter green.Riggs, again, saving the day.
I exhale. “Ice. Ten more.” I nod at her elbow.
“Bossy.”
“Alive.”
She salutes sloppily with paint-slick fingers. “Yes, sir.”
I should leave, but I don’t. I take a stool, sit where I can see the door and the window and the artist who’s become my axis, and watch her layer color over the arc I drew—but not cover it. Never cover. She lets it ghost through, a line only visible if you know to look.
Hours from now I’ll replay this night and wonder if this was the exact moment I stopped being a contractor on a high-net-worth detail and became something else. Bodyguard, sure. Shield, absolutely. But also… collaborator.
And no, Dean, I’m not requesting reassignment.
Not when the most dangerous thing I’ve ever stood in front of is asking me, in paint and half-smiles, to stay.
8
Camille
The first omen of chaos arrives cloaked in rose-gold sunglasses and a grin built for trouble. Vanessa Mercado—public-relations maven, sometimes partner in crime—sashays through my front gates as if they’d opened just for her. To be fair, they probably did. Edgar has a soft spot for anyone who compliments his topiary dragons.
I’m on the veranda, laptop balanced on my knees while I proof donor lists for the gala, when her heels click across the flagstones. “Cam! Permission to raid your wine fridge?”
“Granted—if you promise not to reorganize my cheeses by zodiac sign again.” I close the laptop, stand, and brace for the hug that always feels like being tackled by scented glitter.
She squeezes, pulls back, studies my face. “You look… wired.”
“Long week.” I wave it off, not wanting to revisit masked psychos and bruised elbows. “Mural turned out amazing, though.”
“I saw the livestream! Those kids were adorable.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Almost as adorable as the living, breathing action figure hovering behind you.”
Before I can whirl, Sawyer steps out of the house, talking quietly into his comms mic. Tactical jeans, fitted black tee, holster riding his hip like it was born there. He spots Vanessa, nods politely, returns to conversation with Riggs—who appears farther down the path hauling a box of infrared cameras. They’re doing a full perimeter upgrade tonight. Sawyer said he didn’t care how many zeros the invoice accrued. Oxygen, he called it, and for once he wasn’t talking about paint.
Vanessa watches him stalk toward a lamppost anchor point, jaw hinged open. “Dios mío, who ordered the dark-and-deadly bodyguard?”
“My father,” I mutter. “Please behave.”
But Vanessa is already gliding forward, hair swishing like a Pantene commercial. She taps Sawyer’s elbow. “Hi, I’m Vanessa, security consultant connoisseur. And you are?”
He finishes whatever code phrase he was murmuring—“… Delta clear, post Four”—then turns, professional smile in place. “Sawyer Maddox, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” She fans herself theatrically. “Do I look like a ma’am?”
His eyebrow quirks exactly one millimeter, and I feel it vibrate in my sternum. “Protocol, Vanessa.”
