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CHAPTER EIGHT

After Olivia finished her morning workout, Tyson settled at his desk.

The first thing on his to-do list was confirming the new security agency he’d hired to monitor his property was starting today.

They were. Hobbes would go over everything with them when they arrived. But Tyson wanted two men here at all times, keeping an eye on the front and back of the property—just in case.

With that taken care of, he dealt with more issues concerning the school.

Detective Scarborough hadn’t made much headway with those threats against Tyson, but the detective assured him he was working on it. They just needed more concrete evidence.

After that conversation, Tyson began working on an article for a men’s health magazine. Then he wrote a chapter of his next book. He reviewed his schedule for the next few weeks, noting different speaking engagements and trips he’d agreed to take.

At noon, the alarm he’d set went off, reminding him it was time for lunch. As he walked into the kitchen, he spotted Olivia looking through the refrigerator and cleared his throat.

She jerked back from the opened door, a sheepish expression on her face.

“I wasn’t looking for junk food. Honest.” She did a scout’s pledge.

Tyson nodded in playful skepticism and rounded the corner to see what she was up to. He halfway expected to find she’d had Instacart deliver her groceries and that she’d stocked his fridge with junk food.

Instead, she stood empty-handed before him.

“It’s not like you really have anything to eat.” Her eyes scanned the contents of the refrigerator. “Let me be honest. I really want a doughnut right now.”

He chuckled. “Wait for your cheat meal then.”

The program allowed for one meal once a week where participants could eat whatever they wanted.

“Fair enough.” She sighed and shut the refrigerator door. “So, what’s next on our program, Muscle Man?”

He deserved that term after slipping and calling her Kiddo last night. He shouldn’t have used that word to address her. It wasn’t professional, and the woman deserved more respect than that.

He remembered her question. What’s next? “Lunch. Why don’t you have a seat while I prepare something?”

“A man who’s comfortable in the kitchen.” She raised her eyebrows. “I like it. Is there anything you’re not good at?”

“Quite a few things actually.”

She tilted her head skeptically. “Name one.”

“Well, I tried singing karaoke, and it was disastrous.”

Olivia laughed. “ That I would like to hear.”

“Not today. Time to eat.” He placed a sandwich in front of Olivia.

* * *

Olivia left the kitchen when Wes and Chandler came home with fast food burgers and fries. They’d offered her some. Before temptation got the best of her, she’d exited.

She had to remind herself she wasn’t on this program for herself. She cared about the viewers who were counting on her to do this program with them. She couldn’t let them down.

She’d already gotten emails from people who were eagerly participating with her and counting on her to set a good example.

Flipping up the screen to her laptop, she decided to check her email and update her social media. It took a few minutes for everything to load.

She smiled at some of the comments her viewers had made. Generally, the feedback she received was positive. Occasionally, she got a critical message from someone who didn’t think fun and reporting went together.

Olivia begged to differ. Above all, it had to be fun. If not, what was the point?

One message was from [email protected], and the subject read, “Remember me?”

Clicking on the email, she read the message.

And you thought it was all over.

Olivia frowned and read it again. Was the sender talking about a segment she’d done in the past? It was the only thing that came to mind.

Still, the message seemed odd. Then again, dealing with the public opened her up to a wide range of personalities.

Shrugging, she shut down her email and closed her laptop with a click.

She didn’t have any more time to waste. She and Chandler had a meeting to start editing some footage.

But something about the message bugged her.

Those words combined with that rose petal she’d found tried to set her back and erase months of progress.

Olivia couldn’t let that happen.

* * *

That night, Olivia woke with a start, her heart pounding.

The digital clock on her nightstand read 2:17 a.m. She’d heard something—a creaking floorboard perhaps or a door closing softly.

She sat up, straining to hear over the sound of her own breathing.

There it was again—the unmistakable sound of footsteps moving down the hallway past her room.

Carefully, she slipped out of bed and moved to the door, pressing her ear against it.

The footsteps stopped.

She waited a full minute before cracking the door open just enough to peer through.

A shadow moved at the end of the hallway—tall, masculine.

In the dim nightlight, she could make out Hobbes’ distinctive profile as he paused outside Tyson’s office.

Olivia watched as he glanced around. A second later, he produced a key and quietly unlocked the door.

Her pulse quickened.

What would Hobbes be doing in Tyson’s office at this hour?

She watched as he slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. A faint light flickered on—not the overhead, but something smaller. A flashlight, perhaps.

She debated whether to wake Tyson.

If Hobbes was up to something sinister, confronting him alone would be dangerous.

But what if she was overreacting? The man worked here, after all.

Before she could decide, Hobbes emerged from the office, carefully locking the door behind him. He carried something in his hands—a folder of some kind.

He tucked it under his arm and moved toward the stairs with purpose.

Olivia quickly closed her door, leaving just a crack to watch him descend. Once he was gone, she counted to thirty and then followed, keeping to the shadows.

At the bottom of the stairs, she saw the kitchen light was on. She crept closer, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard near the entryway.

Through the arched opening into the kitchen, she saw Hobbes standing at the counter. The folder lay open before him. He was . . . writing something?

No, not writing—signing documents.

Olivia leaned closer, trying to see what the papers were.

As she did, her foot brushed against a decorative vase, making it wobble.

She held her breath before springing into action.

Moving quickly, she caught the vase before it fell—but not before it made a soft sound against the wooden floor.