Page 2 of Riggs (The Maddox BRAVO Team #2)

Vanessa

My alarm buzzes at four-thirty, and I roll out of bed like I’m escaping a trap.

The suite’s quiet, dark, and disorienting; the sun hasn’t even bothered to wake up yet.

My eyes sting from three hours of restless sleep, and my heart kicks into gear the second my feet touch the cold hotel floor.

Anxiety is nothing new—I’ve built an entire brand out of managing it—but these recent threats are unraveling the carefully woven threads of my confidence.

This morning, though, nerves have nothing on the awareness buzzing under my skin. Awareness named Riggs.

I run a hot shower, trying to let the steam clear my head.

All it does is make me remember the look in his eyes last night—calm, professional, utterly unreadable.

He handed me a secure phone as casually as he might’ve passed me the salt.

His fingers brushed mine briefly, and even that faint, accidental contact made my stomach flip.

Pull it together, Vanessa. He’s doing his job.

But my mind rewinds to our first meeting at Camille Kingsley’s place.

Even then, he’d made me curious. Quiet strength, controlled movements, and that ridiculously sexy nickname, Beard-Mountain, I’d tossed his way half-joking, half-teasing.

He’d barely reacted. Just one dark eyebrow lifting, like he was amused beneath the stone surface he shows the world. It was so incredibly hot.

I towel off, throw on jeans, boots, and a loose sweater—the influencer’s version of travel-casual, enough effort to survive a candid photo, comfy enough for a 6 a.m. flight. I check my reflection, letting my hair fall in loose waves. Riggs isn’t the only one who can pull off effortlessly cool.

My phone buzzes once, a gentle reminder from Riggs’s secure device:

SUV downstairs. Leaving in 10.

I slip on oversized sunglasses, grab my carry-on, and step into the hall.

Riggs waits outside my door, leaning casually against the wall.

He straightens instantly, eyes sharp, alert, scanning me quickly as if assessing my readiness for travel.

Or threats. Today he’s in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that definitely belong in one of those rugged ads for expensive watches or whiskey. Again, incredibly hot.

I clear my throat, trying to sound less flustered than I feel. “Good morning, Beard Mountain.”

“Morning.” He nods toward my bag. “Need help?”

“Nope.” I tighten my grip. “I’ve got it.”

He lifts a brow but doesn’t argue. He just turns smoothly, leading the way toward the elevator. His back is broad, strong lines of muscle shifting beneath his shirt. I force myself to look away, but my eyes keep slipping back to him like magnets to metal.

In the elevator, I attempt small talk to fill the silence. “So, ever been to Seattle?”

“Few times,” he says, his voice low, calm, effortlessly composed. “Mostly for work.”

“What do you do when it’s not work?”

He glances at me from the corner of his eye, amused. “Hike. Fish. You know, typical mountain man shit. Not that I get nearly enough downtime.”

“Fair enough.” I smile, nudging him lightly with my shoulder, craving any kind of connection. “I guess downtime isn’t your thing.”

He pauses, then sighs softly. “Downtime gets people hurt.”

It’s quiet again, and guilt gnaws at my stomach. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

His eyes soften slightly. “Not your fault. I’ll do my job, and you do yours. We’ll get through this.”

When the doors open, he gently guides me through the lobby, hand settling lightly on the small of my back. The touch sends warmth spiraling through me. It feels protective, almost personal. Exactly the sort of thing I shouldn’t read into, and exactly the sort of thing I can’t ignore.

The drive to the airport is quiet. The city’s still mostly asleep, streets half-empty under dim amber lights.

Riggs sits next to me, gaze never resting, scanning sidewalks and mirrors, one strong thigh close enough to mine that I can feel his heat.

Every cell in my body is acutely aware of him, cataloging each breath, each subtle shift.

At the airport, Riggs immediately takes charge.

“Stay close. Your team will be catching the next flight and will be just behind us,” he says quietly.

He maneuvers us through the crowds like a man on a mission, eyes sharp, broad shoulders clearing a subtle path.

The ease with which he moves through space is intoxicating—people step aside instinctively, sensing his authority.

In the security line, a younger woman with bright pink hair and a backpack plastered with travel patches does a double-take when she spots me. Recognition flickers, and her eyes widen. I see it a mile away. Ugh, fan mode activated.

“Oh my God,” she whispers excitedly, fumbling for her phone. “Are you Vanessa Mercado?”

“I am,” I say warmly, pulling down my sunglasses. “Good morning!”

She beams, holding out her phone eagerly. “Can we do a selfie?”

Riggs growls out a ‘no’, and I pout. I’m not used to this. I’m used to giving my fans whatever they want. It’s probably why I’m in this mess to begin with.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize to the woman, and she waves me off.

“That’s okay! I love your posts.” She beams, and Riggs watches closely, not interrupting, though his posture subtly shifts like a guard dog on alert.

I lean in and smile brightly, giving the girl my usual cheery, approachable vibe. “Thank you.”

She glances toward Riggs. Her brows rise, curiosity flaring. “Is this your…new boyfriend?”

Riggs stiffens slightly next to me. My heart skips.

I’ve been asked that question countless times—usually about some assistant or random guy who’s stepped into the frame—but right now, it feels loaded.

His hand is still pressed lightly against my lower back, and the contact feels undeniably personal.

I don’t want to alarm fans about the real reason for his presence, so I react on instinct. “Yep,” I say cheerfully, giving Riggs a teasing look. “Brand new. Isn’t he cute?”

The fan blushes, nodding enthusiastically. “Totally! You guys make a great couple.”

Riggs’s eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable. “Thanks,” he says gruffly, voice low enough to send a delicious shiver up my spine.

Once we’re through security, I glance sideways. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be.” Riggs shrugs, though his jaw tightens subtly. “It’s smart. Makes things easier.”

Easier? I doubt it. Pretending he’s my boyfriend already feels dangerously close to what I secretly want—real intimacy with a man who seems unreachable.

At the gate, we sit near the window. I steal glances his way, noticing again how undeniably handsome he is.

His beard is thick, neatly trimmed, framing lips that rarely smile but turn devastating when they do.

His eyes—dark chocolate—hold infinite secrets beneath their steady gaze.

And those shoulders…I imagine gripping them, feeling that strength beneath my fingertips.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, noticing my staring.

“I’m good,” I reply quickly, heat flooding my cheeks. “Just tired.”

“Try to sleep on the flight. You’ll need energy for today’s itinerary.”

“Right. Seattle awaits.” I smile. “Coffee, rain, and whatever else.”

He nods, expression softening slightly. “We’ll get through it.”

The boarding call breaks our moment. Riggs keeps a protective hand close to my back again as we board, and this time I lean into it more deliberately, savoring the feel of his solid presence at my side.

I wish I could know what he’s thinking, whether he feels any of this awareness or if it’s entirely one-sided.

We take our seats. Riggs is in the aisle, and I’m in the window seat. I immediately reach for my phone, snapping a quick selfie. He lifts a brow, skeptical. “Delayed post, remember?”

“Yes, boss,” I tease, nudging his arm. “Delayed.”

He shakes his head slightly, a hint of amusement behind his stoicism. I tuck the phone away and lean back, closing my eyes, feigning sleep. But my mind keeps replaying the feeling of his hand at my back, the low timbre of his voice, the way he watches me—alert, careful, and protective.

I turn toward him slightly, peeking beneath lowered lashes.

His jaw is set, eyes scanning the aisle with careful precision.

My heart thuds, because there’s something comforting and thrilling in how thoroughly he takes his job—how utterly capable he seems. I want more of him, to know what he’s like when he’s not scanning exits, or not standing guard.

When the plane finally takes off, the cabin quiet and lights dimmed, I lean slightly closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Thank you, Riggs. For all of this.”

His eyes soften, turning to meet mine in the low light. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.”

I smile softly. “Still. You make me feel safe.”

He hesitates, then nods gently. “Good.”

“You know…” I tease lightly, hoping to see that rare, tiny smile again, “if we’re going to pretend you’re my boyfriend, we might have to work on your charming small talk.”

He snorts softly, turning slightly toward me, closer now. “I’m security. Charming costs extra.”

My laugh comes out easier than it has in days. “I’ll take my chances.”

Our gazes linger a second too long, silence turning charged. He clears his throat, breaking the moment and glancing away. “Sleep. I’ll wake you when we land.”

I close my eyes obediently, though sleep feels impossible now. Awareness hums beneath my skin. Riggs might insist this is strictly professional, but there’s something here—I feel it every time he touches me, every time our eyes meet.

Maybe it’s dangerous, mixing attraction with necessity. But as I drift into a restless doze, I decide I’m okay with a little danger. After all, my life lately is one giant, unpredictable mess.

And right now, Andy Riggs is the only part of it that feels perfectly, dangerously right.