Page 8 of Riggs (The Maddox BRAVO Team #2)

Vanessa

Morning smells like hotel coffee and rain—that soft Seattle drizzle that turns the whole city into a watercolor.

I wake to the memory of Riggs’s palm warm at the back of my neck and the cardboard edges of that awful note.

Fear tries to creep back in. However, it hits a wall named Andy Riggs and slips off in the other direction.

Today’s stop: atelier , capital letters implied.

(Eye roll) A designer the internet worships has loaned an entire rack for a try-on reel and “spontaneous” Behind-the-Scenes.

Translation: five looks, three reels, a dozen photos, and a small army juggling steamers and garment bags while pretending we’re casual.

Riggs walks me down the service stairs two steps ahead, voice low on comms as he checks with Rae and Jaxson. His hand finds its usual place at my lower back as we cross into the loading bay, a light touch that somehow grounds my entire nervous system.

“Remember,” he says as the SUV door closes behind us. “We use the side entrance. No live posts. Your team stays in sight. If something feels off, you say it out loud.”

“Yes, Dad,” I tease, then soften. “Yes, Beard-Mountain.”

His mouth almost smiles. “Better.”

The boutique is a box of light tucked on a cobblestoned side street, all pale wood and glass and the kind of minimalism that costs a fortune.

The designer—Elodie, long braid, measuring tape around her neck like a stethoscope—meets us at the side door with a flurry of cheek kisses and a breathless, “You angel, I’ve wanted you in my pieces since that rooftop video. ”

Riggs’s brows tilt a fraction, and I pat his arm like stand down, it’s fashion .

He’s already scanning—mirrors, corners, the reflection in the front window where a couple lingers with cappuccinos.

He posts a hotel guard at the alley door, wedges something invisible under the hinge, and sets his back in a position that lets him own both exits with one glance.

Brice materializes in a cloud of stress and hair gel. “Okay, okay,” he claps. “We’re on a forty-minute window before the press call. Looks one through five, starting with the blue drape. Slo-mo twirl. Laugh like you’ve never laughed before. Then the gold lamé?—”

“The what ?” Riggs deadpans.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, grinning. “You’ll like it.”

He grunts. “Doubtful.”

My PA, Lina, thrusts a bottle of water into my hand, already talking in list form. “Steamer’s on, mics are charged, pins are in my pocket, you’ve got your secure phone—” She pats my bag as if she can soothe last night’s ghost away. I squeeze her fingers, grateful.

Elodie leads me behind a velvet curtain into the fitting area: three stalls, one mirror the size of a door, another mirror angled to catch the other mirror, which makes Riggs twitch.

The lighting is warm and generous. The rack is a dream—silks in colors that make you say oh aloud, a slinky column in black, a gold lamé slip that looks like the inside of a champagne flute, a navy suit cut like sin.

Riggs stations himself just outside the curtain, feet braced, profile set. His gaze does its sweep: front door, back door, a delivery guy with a box of ribbons, a girl across the street pretending not to film. He doesn’t look into the fitting room, but I feel him like a gravity shift.

“Look one in sixty seconds,” Brice chirps, clapping. “Back-to-front pan, snatch and twirl?—”

“I am not snatching,” I say, laughing. “But I will twirl.”

Elodie helps me into the blue drape, a one-shoulder silk that feels indecent just to touch , let alone step into. “It was made to move,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Let it.”

I step out. Riggs answers with silence that says more than words. His eyes track me head to toe in one slow pass that heats every inch his gaze touches. He doesn’t move his hands. He doesn’t have to. The air moves.

“How do I look?” I toss it to the room, but I’m aiming for one man.

Brice says, “Perfect!” Elodie sighs, “Iconic.” Lina beams like a proud cousin.

Riggs finally blinks. “Like trouble,” he says quietly. “The good kind.”

Warmth blooms under my skin. “Use it,” he adds, and the way he says use feels like permission and a dare.

We film the first reel. I walk toward the camera, turn, laugh at nothing and everything, let the silk catch the air like a secret.

Riggs shifts with me, always at my periphery.

Between takes he hands me sips of water without looking away from the door, murmuring, “Two steps left—mirror,” or “Hold—reflection,” and I adjust like we’re dancing. We kind of are.

Look two is the black column. No slit, no lace—just line. I slip into it and forget to breathe. The fabric slides over me like a yes. I step out, and the room gets quieter. Even Brice pauses.

Riggs’s throat works. He stands up straighter without moving. “Vanessa,” he says, my name a low rasp that does not belong in a workplace. Heat curls low in my belly.

“Professional feedback?” I ask, because if I don’t keep it light I will step straight into him and forget the cameras exist.

“Professional feedback,” he says, steadying. “Your hem will catch if you move too fast. And people will stop thinking. Plan accordingly.”

I grin, savoring the way his restraint frays at the edges when he looks at me like that. “Copy.”

Look three is the gold lamé slip. I step into it and swear under my breath because it feels like warm light. The mirror says: dangerous. The mirror also says: worth it.

I step out. The room exhales. Riggs goes very still.

“Absolutely not,” he says.

My mouth drops. “Excuse me?”

His eyes flick to the front window, and then back at me. “You can’t wear that for the world to see.”

I smile, and am digging the protective vibe, but I won’t let any man tell me what I can or can not wear. Even if every reckless bone in me wants to swing a leg over him like a rookie cowgirl at her first rodeo. “I’m a master at angles. They won’t see all of me, but thank you for looking out.”

He growls. Like a literal growl just escaped him.

I laugh, and I feel ridiculously turned on by the fact that he’s acting this way.

“Back room,” he says. “You should do this where there’s less eyes.” He glances around the shop, and Elodie nods.

“He’s right. We have a back storage room.”

In the storage room, the light is softer. Someone leans a painting against the wall, and the coloring does wonders with the gold. Brice sets up a handheld, and Lina checks my hair. Riggs stands in the doorway, eyes on fire.

The microphone’s cord snags on the nearly invisible strap. “I got it,” I say, twisting to reach. I don’t, not in this dress.

A large, warm hand appears. “I got this” he says.

He steps close, careful as a prayer, and lifts the cord free.

His knuckles brush against my bare spine as my breath stumbles.

The air between us contracts to inches. I feel the heat off him, the restraint.

He leans back, fingers ghosting down once more to make sure no fabric is caught, and steps away like it cost him.

“You’re doing great,” he says, voice not entirely steady.

“Professional feedback duly noted,” I manage, and Elodie pretends to be fascinated by her pins, mouth twitching.

We film. It’s romantic—slow pans, a laugh over my shoulder, a close-up of fabric sliding like sunlight. Riggs is a wall at the door. I never have to look to know where he is. It makes me feel safe.

Look four is a navy suit tailored within a millimeter of indecent.

I step out, jacket unbuttoned, bralette peeking, pants breaking just right over strappy heels, and watch Riggs’s eyes go from asset to woman and back like he’s forcing himself.

He drops his gaze to my shoes, inhales, and says, “Wow.”

Elodie smiles and says, “I love a boyfriend with good taste.”

It’s pride that takes over my face. I love hearing Riggs being called my boyfriend.

“He has the best,” I say, and Riggs just grunts in response and Elodie and I laugh.

We leave the storage area and return to the store.

We’re down to the last look—white silk, bias cut, the idea of a dress more than a dress itself.

Riggs eyes drag over my body leaving goosebumps in their wake.

It’s almost like his eyes burn right through me, and then he switches to professional mode.

He taps his earpiece, and his face turns stoic.

“Copy,” he says, and shifts to block me from the window. “Curtains.”

“Everything okay?”

Lina whisks them closed. The boutique becomes a small, safe world. The note from yesterday flutters at the edge of my mind and then quiets, because whatever waits outside is going to have to go through him.

Riggs nods once. “Everything’s fine.”

I stare at him for a beat longer than necessary. Even if the world was on fire, I think Riggs would still tell me it’s all fine so I wouldn’t panic. I don’t know if I like that, or not. All I know is whatever’s going on outside, I trust Riggs to keep me safe.

We do final shots in the white silk. I catch my reflection—pale glow, dark hair, a smile that looks like it belongs to someone who knows where her feet are. When we wrap, Elodie kisses my cheeks again and presses a garment bag into my hands. “For later,” she says, in a low voice. “No cameras.”

My face heats. “You’re dangerous.”

“So is he,” she says, glancing at the doorway where Riggs is already coordinating exit routes with the hotel guard. “But only in the right direction.”

Brice corrals the crew as Lina counts pins. Riggs sends our SUV down the alley and lines everyone up by twos like a field trip. He waits until the last possible second to open the door, then tucks me into his body.

Outside smells like rain and espresso. There’s two men at the café.

It almost happens in slow motion. One lifts his phone, ready to snap a picture.

Riggs turns me with a subtle press, his palm skating across my hip, and the shot the world gets is the back of his broad shoulder, not the line of my throat.

In the SUV, Lina collapses with a happy sigh. “We did it. We did it!”

“We did it,” Brice echoes, typing furiously into three group chats. “That gold reel is going to end communism.”

Riggs ignores him, scanning the mirrors. The SUV eases into traffic, and the boutique shrinks in the rearview like the past. He loosens his hand where it’s still at my waist and doesn’t move it far. My body leans into him.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low enough to be mine.

“Better than okay,” I say, surprising myself with the truth. “I forgot to be scared inside there. Because you were there.”

He exhales, something easing around his eyes. “Good.”

I twist the garment bag around my finger. “Elodie gave me a dress,” I confess. “For…not content.”

His mouth does that almost-smile. “I noticed.” His gaze dips to my hand on the hanger, then cuts to the window like it’s a thing to be defeated. “You were—” He stops, and recalibrates. “You did your job.”

“So did you,” I say. “It was… insanely attractive.”

“Professional feedback duly noted,” he says, and it’s impossible not to laugh.

My phone buzzes. I glance down. A hundred fire emojis, a dozen “WHO IS HE” messages, a trending banner that makes my stomach tilt and settle again. I turn the screen face down.

“What’s the damage?” he asks.

“Everyone wants to know who my boyfriend is.” I bump his shoulder. “Should I tell them he’s my bodyguard?”

“No,” he says, deadpan.

“Should I tell them he’s a wall who kisses like a promise?” It slips out, too honest. His hand flexes at my waist. He doesn’t look at me, and he doesn’t let go.

“Tell them,” he says after a beat, “that you’re busy.”

“Busy,” I echo, smiling into the window. “With my safety?”

“With living,” he says, and the word lands like a vow.

“Social media doesn’t understand that,” I joke, but not really because it’s true. As an influencer I feel like I have to always be creating fresh new content. Live a life? Never. Not while creating content.

“We’ll make them understand.” And the way he says it makes me believe that anything is possible.

We roll through the wet city. Riggs hands still on me like I’m precious cargo.

Back at the hotel, Riggs rides the elevator with a palm warm at my lower back. My heartbeat kicks up a notch, and I’d do anything for him to push me against the elevator doors and have his wicked way with me.

But that’s not going to happen. He’s too good at his job.

At our floor, he does the sweep, the wedge, the routine that has threaded itself into the spine of my day.

Inside the room, I hang the garment bag on the wardrobe handle and catch my own anticipation in the mirror.

His eyes meet mine in the reflection. For a second, the rain quiets to nearly nothing.

“Thank you,” I say, not really sure what I'm thanking him for, just knowing I need to say it .

“You’re welcome,” he says.