Page 14

Jesus. "You were supposed to be the footnote in this case. The accidental witness who got lucky, stayed the hell out of the way, and lived to tell the tale. But you’re not just a witness anymore, are you? Whoever broke in wasn’t here for your jewelry."

"Ya think?" she says with a dry smile, "Thanks for the insight."

I drag in a breath through my nose, slow and sharp. Losing my temper won’t help. But hell if she doesn’t make it feel like the only damn option. Her mouth, that tone—each word like a lit match daring me to burn. I clamp down hard on the urge to explode and level my voice instead.

She walks past me, stepping over the debris on the floor like it doesn’t gut her to see her home turned inside out. Rush may have given me the sketch out at the ranch, but even on paper, her focus cut through—cool, sharp, deliberate. Like someone who doesn't rattle easy.

Seeing her now? That sketch didn’t lie. It was her precision, her eye for detail, that caught my attention before I ever saw her in person. She should be shaking. But she’s not. She’s plotting. I'm not sure whether or not that's a good thing.

I trail her into the living room, the tension between us stretching taut as wire. The moment feels like the calm before a storm neither of us knows how to stop. I grab the duffel from where I left it just inside the front door and sling it over my shoulder. I drop it onto the couch with a solid thud, like staking a claim.

My eyes scan the space—eclectic, artistic, a little chaotic. An overstuffed armchair in worn indigo linen. A floor lamp made from salvaged driftwood. Paintings on the walls that aren’t mass-produced prints, but originals, thick with brushstrokes and emotion. There’s a worn warmth to it, the kind that says someone fought for this peace. Lived in it. Breathed in it. It smells like her too—vanilla, citrus, something earthy that gets under your skin. It suits her. And I’m not going anywhere.

She raises a brow. "You’re moving in?"

"Yep, at least until we know what we’re dealing with."

"Guest room is upstairs."

"Nope. I sleep between you and the front door."

She blinks. "That’s not necessary."

I level her with a look. "It is. And it’s not up for discussion."

She exhales slowly, arms crossing in a calm, deliberate motion—more measured defiance than petulance. "You’re real big on commands for someone who was never invited in the first place."

"And you’re real big on ignoring danger until it kicks in your front door and wrecks your house."

Silence stretches, taut and crackling.

She breaks it first. "Fine. You want to play bodyguard? Knock yourself out. Just don’t expect me to fetch you a blanket."

I grin. "I wasn’t planning on sleeping."

That earns me a flush in her cheeks she tries to hide by turning away. I don’t miss it.

I take a step closer, lowering my voice. "Tell me again what happened. Everything. From the top."

She sighs, quiet but resolved, and heads into the kitchen with her steps a little steadier than before. At the fridge, she pulls out a bottle of water, the plastic crinkling in her grip as if she needs something to do with her hands. I follow, planting myself at the island, arms folded—not just watching her, but anchoring the space between us like a line neither of us wants to cross, but both of us might.

She runs through the story—seeing the fake cop, the sketch, the visit to the police. I already know the broad strokes, but the more detail she gives, the clearer the picture becomes. She’s not just a witness. She’s a data processor. A kind of profiler with spreadsheets.

She finishes and turns to me. "Satisfied?"

"Not even close," I say, but softer this time, waggling my eyebrows at her..

She glares at first and then relents and graces me with a smile. She stares at the couch where my duffel sits like itoffended her feng shui. "If I wake up and trip over your boots, I’m throwing them out the window."

I take a slow step toward her. "I could always just keep them on or place them under your bed."

Her breath catches. There it is—the spark, hot and sharp. The chemistry between us isn’t new, but here, in her wrecked kitchen, with her walls down and her voice trembling with exhaustion, it feels different. Like something breaking loose.

"You’re not serious," she says, but her voice is husky.

"I’m dead serious. You’re in danger. And you’re under my protection."

"You can protect me from across the hall."