Page 13 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Camille

The afternoon sun drifts through the wisteria canopy like liquid apricot, gilding everything in warmth that feels fragile.

It’s too fragile for the nerves twisting in my gut.

Twenty-one hours until the gala. Twenty-one hours until two hundred champagne-slick donors and four hundred glitter-drunk influencers swarm this house like moths around a spotlight.

“To pre-panic or post-panic, that is the question.” I mutter it at the sky, then tip the last inch of chardonnay into Vanessa’s glass.

She lounges beside me on the teak daybed in a gauzy jade romper, legs stretched, toes painted merlot. “I vote pre,” she says, twirling the stem between her fingers. “Panic now so tomorrow you can glide like a swan.”

“Swan murder is a felony, Ness.”

“Only if they find the body.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Cheers to the most stressful soirée this city has ever seen.”

We sip. The wine is citrusy with a whisper of honeysuckle. It’s like summer in a stem. For a heartbeat I almost forget the weighted lock bolts, the hidden cameras, the operators pacing the tree line.

“So,” Vanessa begins, eyes glinting. “Tell me everything about Beard-Mountain.”

“Riggs?”

“Obviously. He’s silent and broody and looks like he can bench-press my ego.”

I laugh. “He’s Sawyer’s teammate, brAVO Team’s second. Afghanistan vets, apparently. Loves bourbon and dogs. That’s all I’ve gathered.”

“Bourbon and dogs? Sold.” She sinks deeper into the cushion. “But my girl intuition says the true drama is between you and Captain Discipline.”

Heat climbs my cheeks before I can control it. “Sawyer’s strictly professional.”

“Professional doesn’t leave finger-paint hickeys on your neck.” Vanessa’s grin is wicked. “Relax. I’m kidding. So? Spill.”

I toy with the base of my glass. Images flash behind my eyelids. Sawyer’s hand cradling my nape, the crush of his mouth, paint smears on his throat. My pulse stumbles.

“Nothing unprofessional,” I say. Technically true … if we redefine nothing. “He’s focused on the gala.”

Vanessa snorts. “Focused on you more likely.” She nudges my knee. “Have you thought about what happens after? When the bad guys are in cuffs and gala confetti’s swept?”

“Every waking second.” The confession slips out, soft and shivery. “I’ve never felt so seen. Or so safe.”

“Or so turned on,” she sings.

“Vanessa!”

She cackles, then sobers. “You deserve safe and steamy. Don’t sabotage it.”

A wind gust rattles the wisteria leaves, scattering purple petals. I track one drifting onto my thigh. “What if tomorrow goes sideways? What if this person—or people—make their move?”

“Then Sawyer and Beard-Mountain will go full John Wick, and I’ll livestream from a tasteful angle.” She angles her glass. “Kidding. But honestly, the security here is Fort Knox on steroids.”

I glance toward the house. Beyond the French doors I can see one Orange operator—Rae—doing a final walk-through with a tablet. “And yet someone breached twice already.”

Vanessa follows my gaze, then lowers her voice. “There’s still no leads?”

“The flash-bang traced to a surplus show. Paper stock traced to a specialty boutique, but the sales list was hacked. Hartley’s team’s cross-referencing Kingsley ex-employees, but nothing concrete.”

She sighs. “Any other theories? A jealous ex? A rival artist?”

I think of every critic who’s hated my murals, every opportunist who’s courted my father’s approval only to be turned down. None fit the escalating precision of these attacks.

“Could be someone targeting Dad, using me as leverage,” I say. “IPO sharks can be vicious.”

Vanessa tilts her head. “Then they’ll strike when the media’s here—to humiliate him.”

“Exactly. Tomorrow’s perfect. It’s cameras and chaos.”

She reaches over, and squeezes my hand. “Then we’ll be vigilant and still sparkle.” She sits up, eyebrow cocked. “Speaking of sparkle, Sawyer’s been circulating like a comet all afternoon, and you haven’t ogled him once in ten minutes. Are you broken?”

My lips curve. “He’s strip-searching the valet schedule.”

“Hot.” She drains her glass, and stands. “I’m refilling. You?”

“One more won’t hurt.” I watch her glide across the patio toward the French doors, hips swaying. The moment she’s inside, I exhale, rubbing my temple to quell the adrenaline swirl.

Footsteps crunch behind me. My pulse leaps before I even turn. “Speak of professional devils,” I say.

Sawyer steps onto the veranda in slate-gray tactical trousers and a navy polo that fits like temptation tailor-made.

Aviators shield his eyes, but I can feel the heat of his focus.

“Vendor review complete,” he says, voice low, dipping into a register that brushes every nerve ending.

“AV crew double-verified credentials. No anomalies.”

“Good.” I pat the cushion beside me—casual invitation laced with need. “Sit. Take two minutes.”

He glances to the door Vanessa disappeared into, then back. Slowly he lowers onto the daybed, boots flat on the decking, forearms resting on his thighs. Close enough for the sleeve of his polo to graze my arm when I breathe deep.

“How’s the pulse?” he asks.

“Erratic.” I smile. “And yours?”

“Steady.” A beat. “Mostly.”

The word tangles between us. The veranda, shaded and scented with wisteria, collapses into a bubble of charged air. I want to crawl into his lap, forget fear, but the hum of patrol radios floats from the garden.

“I can’t stop thinking about last night,” I murmur.

His jaw flexes. “Me either.”

“That kiss?—”

“Cam.” My name is a warning and a caress. “I need you clear tomorrow.”

“I’m trying, but you’re a walking distraction.”

He huffs a low laugh. “You’re a masterpiece of distraction.”

We lock eyes, and the magnet pulls. I sway, but Vanessa reappears, wine bottle raised. “Corkscrew surrendered willingly!” she announces, halting when she sees Sawyer. “Oh—security huddle?”

Sawyer stands, neutral mask sliding down. “Just briefing Ms. Kingsley.” He nods to me, then retreats down the steps, headset already rising to relay orders.

Vanessa plops onto his vacated space. “You could fry eggs on that tension.”

“Scrambled,” I groan.

She refills our glasses, then leans in. “Okay, Operation ID Psycho: let’s brainstorm.”

We spend an hour toggling theories. Ex-Kingsley employees: Maybe Dad’s former COO, Spencer DeLuna, fired last year for insider leaks.

Bitter rival artist: Jasper Haynes, whose mural bid lost to mine downtown.

A radical environmental group mad at corporate jets?

But nothing fits the precision nor the personal taunts about paint covering blood.

Vanessa sighs. “We need Sherlock.”

“I have Sawyer. And a full brAVO intel team.”

“Yes, but you can’t make out with Sherlock.” She wiggles brows. “Yet.”

I grip my glass. “I don’t just want a fling, Ness. This feels … big.”

Her expression softens. “Then hold on tight.”

Edgar serves a light dinner of citrus-herb chicken, quinoa, and grilled peaches. Vanessa chatters about seating charts while Sawyer stands sentinel near the bay window. Every time my fork touches my lips I sense his gaze, a heated sweep. Dessert is skipped, the nerves killing my hunger.

Later in the evening, Vanessa yawns theatrically. “Beauty rest. Tomorrow I need to sparkle like a disco ball.” She hugs me, and whispers, “Maybe let Captain Discipline relax too,” then sashays out, leaving rose-vanilla perfume in her wake.

Moments later Sawyer appears, silent as dusk. “Vanessa to her suite?”

“Riggs is escorting her to the guest house.” I pace before the fireplace. “Everything feels ready but not ready. Like the calm before?—”

“Not calm. Controlled.” He moves beside me, and grips my shoulders gently. “We’ve drilled scenarios. You’ll shine. We’ll keep you safe.”

I let my head tip forward onto his chest, breathing in cedar and starch. His heartbeat thrums steady. “Stay again tonight?”

“No place else I’d rather.” He lifts my chin. Moonlight slices across his jaw. The need to kiss him claws inside me. I rise on toes—but he stops me with a thumb to my lower lip, gaze scorching.

“After,” he whispers. “And when it comes, it will be everything.”

The promise sends lightning crackling across skin. I swallow and nod, a chill skating over my shoulders.

Sleep evades me. Sawyer sits in the chair, reading camera feeds on his tablet, but every so often his eyes flick to me.

I push back the covers. “Come here.”

He stands, and steps to the bedside. “Cam…”

“Just a real kiss to keep me brave.” My plea trembles. “Then I’ll sleep.”

He hesitates, then sits on the edge, palm sliding to cup my cheek.

The world narrows to the shadowed crease of his lips as he leans down.

Soft, at first—just a brush—but I part for him, greedy, and his restraint shreds.

His mouth slants over mine, tongue stroking deep in a perfect unhurried glide that draws a whimper from my throat.

His hand splays over my ribs, thumb brushing the curve of my breast through my satin cami. I arch, heat pooling.

He breaks away, his voice rough. “Tomorrow.” A vow, a threat, a mercy.

I nod, dazed. He tucks me in, kisses my forehead, then returns to the chair—but his smile is feral, and I know dawn can’t come fast enough.

Despite nerves, I drift off, cradling the taste of him like a secret talisman. Whatever lurks behind tomorrow’s curtain, Sawyer Maddox waits in the wings—wall, door, and soon, if fate is kind, everything in between.