Page 15 of Carter
Harper
The sunlight creeping through Carter’s blinds woke me before the alarm ever could. My body ached in places that had nothing to do with long hospital shifts and everything to do with the man whose arm was heavy across my waist.
For a moment, I just lay there—listening to his even breathing, watching the rise and fall of his chest, letting the quiet wrap around me.
When was the last time I’d woken up like this? Not alone, not already bracing for the weight of another shift, butcontent.
I slid carefully out from under his arm, tugged the blanket higher over his shoulders, and padded into the kitchen in search of coffee. His place was simple—bare walls, functional furniture, a duffel bag half-unpacked by the door. A man who lived like he might leave at any moment.
I was pouring water into the coffeemaker when his voice came from behind me.
“Thought you’d sneak out?”
I jumped, spinning. Carter leaned in the doorway, hairmussed, sweatpants slung low on his hips, eyes still heavy from sleep but sharp on me.
“I wasn’t sneaking,” I said. “I was trying to be nice. Coffee, remember?”
He grunted, crossing the kitchen in three steps. His hand slid over my hip, warm and possessive. “You don’t have to be nice. Not with me.”
My pulse skipped. “What do I have to be, then?”
His mouth brushed the edge of my jaw. “Honest.”
I turned in his arms, searching his eyes. “Honestly? I don’t want this to be one night.”
His chest expanded against mine, like he’d been waiting for those words. He kissed me—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that tasted like a promise—and whispered, “Neither do I.”
The coffeemaker beeped. Neither of us moved, until he picked me up and carried me back to bed.
16
Carter
Two days later, Faron handed me an assignment that tasted like punishment.
“Private detail,” he said, sliding the file across the table. “High-value witness. Needs round-the-clock protection until trial.”
I flipped the folder open, scanning the details. Wealthy, entitled, pain in the ass by the looks of it. I glanced up. “Babysitting?”
“Guarding,” Faron corrected. “Think of it as a test of patience. Two weeks, maybe three. Then you’re back in rotation.”
Patience wasn’t my strong suit. Not when my head was full of Harper—her laugh in my sheets, the way she looked at me like I was worth more than my scars. Every instinct screamed to stay close, to keep her in my sight.
But orders were orders. And Harper wasn’t mine to guard.
Not officially.
I clenched my jaw, snapped the file shut. “Fine. I’ll take it.”
Faron’s gaze sharpened. “Robinson—don’t get distracted.”
Too late.
17
Harper
The shift had been long but ordinary—broken bones, stitches, too many flu cases. By the time I walked out of the hospital, the night air felt heavy with salt from the ocean, the parking lot buzzing under dim yellow lights.
