Page 5 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Camille

“I’ll be five minutes,” I call through the door, hopping into linen pants splattered with last night’s cobalt.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” he rumbles back—amusement threaded through the warning.

I crack the door, toothbrush jutting from foamy lips. “Creative types can’t be rushed.”

“Security protocols can.” He thrusts a travel mug my way. “Lemon ginger tea. Edgar swears by it.”

The gesture tugs a smile from my sleepy face. “You bribed Edgar for intel?”

“I might have.” His eyes sweep the room behind me, already cataloging threats that don’t exist. “Three minutes, Cam.”

We’re in his Range Rover by 07:30, barreling toward Mission Heights Elementary—one of those turn-of-the-century brick fortresses saved from demolition by a coalition of stubborn parents and crowdfunded miracles.

The district cut arts funding years ago.

Today's workshop keeps creativity alive on a shoestring and a prayer.

Sawyer drives, posture textbook perfect. His black polo strains across shoulders sculpted by sins I’m willing to confess later. He scans each intersection, eyes flicking like chess pieces.

“Relax,” I tease, propping paint-stained sneakers on the dash. “We’re headed to finger-paint central, not a war zone.”

“Complacency is the real war zone,” he counters, but those glacier-gray eyes warm around the edges.

I study him while he studies everything else—the faint scar at his brow, the disciplined set of his jaw, the way his right index taps the steering wheel every seven seconds exactly. A metronome disguised as a man.

“You tap when you’re thinking,” I observe.

He arches a brow. “You clocked the timing?”

“Artists notice rhythm.”

A corner of his mouth curves, as if he’s surprised by the fact that he’s smiling.

Mission Heights bristles with morning energy—teachers corralling coffee, kids in neon sneakers, the custodian singing Motown under his breath.

Sawyer sweeps ahead of me, ID badge clipped to his belt.

He checks perimeter doors, bathroom windows, even peeks behind a stack of janitorial bins.

It should annoy me, but watching that precision in motion is… distracting.

“Clear,” he announces after fifteen minutes, rejoining me outside Room 12—ART LAB stencilled crookedly on peeling paint.

Inside, twenty teachers wait at battered plywood tables. Mason jars overflow with brushes; recycled yogurt tubs brim with cheap acrylics. Sunlight spills through high windows, dust motes dancing like lazy confetti.

“Morning, everyone!” I clap, electricity zipping through me the way it always does before I throw a party on canvas. “Today we’re exploring under-painting and glazing—think of it as the secret love affair beneath every masterpiece.”

A ripple of excited chatter. I introduce Sawyer—“extra set of hands, makes a mean security perimeter”—and field the predictable jokes about bodyguards and dangerous easels. He acknowledges them with a dip of his head, eyes already mapping exits.

We dive in. I demonstrate layering burnt sienna beneath translucent ultramarine to birth impossible purples.

The teachers—my people—laugh when my hands fly, gasp when pigment blooms across wet paper like living flame.

And always, always, I feel Sawyer’s gaze: steady, supportive, searing imagination into the small of my back.

At one point I ask for a volunteer. Becca Ortiz—fifth-grade math teacher and resident ray of sunshine—bounces forward. I guide her stroke by stroke, hand over hand. When she catches Sawyer watching, she fans herself theatrically.

“Cam,” she stage-whispers, “if security detail looks like that, sign me up for witness protection.”

The room erupts with giggles. My cheeks burn hotter than cadmium red, but I keep my tone breezy. “He’s strictly professional, Bec.”

“Professionally gorgeous,” she mutters, returning to her seat.

I pretend concentration, though heat coils low in my belly. Yes, Sawyer is gorgeous. And yes, the way his eyes follow me—not possessive, but aware—is doing scandalous things to my focus.

Two hours flash by in a technicolor blur. Finished pieces dry on makeshift clotheslines, shivering like prayer flags. The teachers hug me, promising to use the techniques in class. Becca lingers.

“So, Sawyer,” she says coyly, extending a paint-stained hand. “Any chance you moonlight as a model?”

His lips twitch. “No ma’am. Strictly in the protection business.”

“Pity.” She winks at me. “Cam, guard that one. He’s lethal.”

I manage a laugh, nudging her toward the exit. “See you soon, Bec.”

Once the last teacher filters out, I start cleaning brushes. Sawyer appears at my elbow, rolling up his sleeves, and holy arm porn . His forearms should be illegal. “Let me.”

I watch muscles flex beneath tanned forearms as he swirls sable bristles through jar after jar. “Didn’t know bodyguards came with art-cleaning abilities.”

He glances sideways. “We adapt.”

“Always adapting,” I echo softly, aware how close his hip is to mine. Static arcs between us, a live wire just begging to be touched.

The custodian coughs from the doorway, breaking whatever spell forms over soap-suds. Sawyer stiffens, professionalism snapping back into place.

“Time to roll,” he murmurs.

The drive home coils with thick silence. The sun beats on the windshield. Sawyer’s sunglasses hide his eyes, but I feel them anyway. Halfway across the Saint Pierce Bridge, I risk a look. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Thinking,” he replies.

“Dangerous habit.”

That earns a ghost of a smile. “Just replaying entry points. The school felt safe, but complacency?—”

“—is the real war zone. I remember.” I nudge his arm with mine, teasing. “Guess I should be flattered you stayed glued to my six.”

He shifts in the seat, tension crackling. “Wasn’t exactly a hardship.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like a lovesick teen.

Back at the estate, late-afternoon light drapes the facade in rose-gold. Edgar greets us with news of fresh-baked focaccia. I intend to shower first, but Sawyer places a gentle hand on my elbow.

“Walk with me. Five minutes.”

I follow him through French doors onto the west terrace. The garden sprawls: wisteria, fountain, ivy climbing marble columns. He stops beneath a willow, where dappled shade paints stripes across his jaw.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing’s wrong.” His voice is low, sandpaper-soft. “Just needed a breath before we dive back into fortress mode.”

My pulse skitters. We stand inches apart—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his chest.

“Cam,” he says, sweeping a stray hair from my face, fingers lingering at my temple, “today at the school… I realized I can’t guard you if I’m distracted.”

“Distracted how?” The question flutters from my lips like a dare.

“By this.” His hand slides to cradle my jaw, thumb tracing the bow of my mouth. Electricity detonates behind my ribs.

“And what is ‘this,’ exactly?” I breathe.

“A tactical nightmare.” He leans in until his breath ghosts across my lips. “And the only thing I’ve thought about since I met you.”

The world narrows to willow rustle and heartbeat thunder. I rise on tiptoe, eyes half-lidded. His fingers tense, as if weighing consequences.

Footsteps crunch on gravel—Edgar, announcing dinner. Sawyer’s hand falls away and I swallow disappointment—and relief?—like bitter wine.

He clears his throat. “We should?—”

“Yeah.” I hug my arms around myself. “Focaccia waits for no one.”

We head inside. The charge between us doesn’t dissipate. Instead, it coils, simmering, a fuse burning slow. I know two things with blinding clarity: Someone out there wants me afraid—and someone right here makes me feel anything but.

Somehow, I suspect the second danger might be the harder one to survive.