Page 6 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

I’m pacing the terrace outside the dining room the way most people scroll their phones—endlessly, compulsively—because distance and night air are the only things keeping me from replaying the garden incident on loop.

One reckless heartbeat, one brush of hair from Cam’s soft skin, and all the protocols I live by crumpled like tissue.

My pulse jolted, and her breath hitched. The sky, already gold with late afternoon, slipped into dusky rose— and I almost did something irreparable.

Almost.

A throat clears behind me. Edgar stands framed in the French doors, silver tray poised like a diplomatic flag.

“Dinner is served, Mr. Maddox.”

Showtime. I roll my shoulders, carve professionalism back onto my features, and step inside.

Tonight’s meal is seared salmon with citrus couscous—Camille’s idea of “light,” Edgar’s idea of “fussy,” my idea of one more arena where I have to stare at her mouth without acting on impulse.

She arrives barefoot, a breezy linen dress skimming her knees, auburn braid undone so loose waves tumble over her shoulders. No paint tonight—just dewy skin and those kaleidoscope eyes that see more than they should.

I hold her chair. She thanks me, voice low, and the soft brush of her arm along mine sparks like a live current. We eat, make small talk about tomorrow’s mural project. I keep my replies clipped, neutral; she frowns as if she can feel every syllable I swallow instead of speak.

By the time Edgar clears plates, my appetite is as deserted as a demilitarized zone.

Cam excuses herself to prep supplies for the morning.

I linger at the table, monitoring her retreat down the hall—hips swaying, bare soles whispering over Persian wool—and know I’m teetering on the edge of something no Kevlar can deflect.

I fish out my phone, thumb hovering over Dean’s number.

Request reassignment flickers like an emergency exit sign.

It would be the smart move. Smart moves keep assets safe and operators out of headlines.

Then a second image pushes in—Camille flanked by some other agent, Riggs or Jax or maybe even Dean Maddox himself.

Someone else shadowing her laughter, someone else catching her when the world turns ugly hell-bent.

Acid churns in my gut. No. I want my hands on this detail— literally , figuratively , all of it. If that means I white-knuckle restraint, so be it.

I dial Dean anyway.

He picks up on the third ring, voice gravelly with late-night paperwork and overpriced espresso. “Talk to me.”

“Need a second operator tomorrow. Public mural site, twenty minors, open street access on two sides, one service alley in back.”

Silence while he scrolls mental rosters. “You requesting Jax?”

“Riggs.” The name comes out before I can second-guess it. Riggs is blunt force married to dry wit—and crucially, he’ll keep his eyes on threats, not on Cam.

Dean chuckles. “Ah, you want muscle and manners.”

“I want coverage,” I correct, maybe too quickly. “Riggs is local, familiar with SP street grids. Give me the green light and I’ll send coordinates.”

“You got it. He’ll be wheels-up at oh-six, meet you on-site by eight-thirty.” Dean’s pause lengthens, turns weighted. “Everything else good?”

For a beat I consider telling him—the moment in the garden, the way my pulse recalibrates whenever Cam so much as says my name. Instead I scan the chandelier, assess vantage angles, run threat models—and lie. “All clear,” I say.

“Copy. Keep it tight, Sawyer.”

We hang up. I clench the phone, thumb barely shy of cracking the screen. Keep it tight. Dean has no idea how taut this line is.

Midnight. The mansion yawns with antique echoes while I comb floor by floor, tension coiling tighter than the sling on my sidearm. Third sweep tonight—overkill, but after yesterday’s envelope breach I don’t trust the estate’s perimeters.

Library windows: latched.

Conservatory doors: alarmed.

Studio skylight: new locking pins installed. I hover there a moment, moonlight spilling over half-finished canvases. One bears the new cerulean swipe I added—the tiniest infringement on her art, yet somehow intimate as a fingerprint on skin.

I shove the thought aside, move on.

Upstairs, the hall outside Cam’s bedroom glows with a single sconce. I halt, ears filtering for anomaly: HVAC hum, distant surf, nothing else. Good.

Her door is closed, but soft light seeps beneath. She’s awake, probably coaxing color palettes or reading dog-eared poetry. I turn away—then stop when floorboards creak behind me. The door cracks open.

She stands in the sliver of light, wearing an oversized Kingsley Aeronautics T-shirt that skims mid-thigh, bare legs pale against the darkness. Sleep-mussed hair frames her face, and her eyes, heavy-lidded, settle on me like a secret invitation.

“Everything okay?” she whispers.

“Routine sweep,” I murmur back. My voice shouldn’t sound this rough. “Go back to bed.”

She opens the door wider, and steps into the hall. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not a wink.” I want to tell her it’s the adrenaline, the case, maybe the espresso Edgar thinks I don’t sneak at midnight. But we both know what really keeps me wired.

She tosses me a look that reads she’s concerned.

“I’m fine, Cam.” I force a step back, widening the gap. “Door locked?”

She nods, chewing her bottom lip—the same lip I damn near tasted in the garden. “Tomorrow’s a big day,” she says softly. “Lots of eyes.”

“Nothing we can’t handle.”

“ We. ” She smiles at that syllable, like it tastes good. Then, gentler: “You’ll rest?”

“I’ll try,” I say, which is the safest form of the truth.

She reaches out—slow, tentative—touches the hem of my T-shirt, just a brush of knuckles. “Goodnight, Soldier Boy.”

I step away before I do something catastrophic. “Goodnight, Cam.”

She slips back inside, and the latch clicks. I stare at that door exactly three seconds too long, then force myself down the hall, down the stairs, down into the ops room where blueprints wait like cold water.

03:12 hours — my laptop glows with schematics of the Cabana Beach parking lot where the mural project will unfold.

I annotate choke points, CCTV blind spots, assign sectors for Riggs.

The act of planning is normally balm for my nerves; tonight it’s a tourniquet—tight enough to keep blood away from thoughts of Cam curled in bed, T-shirt riding high as dreams drift low.

Focus, Maddox.

I run drills in my head:

08:30—Riggs checks alley, establishes command post by van.

09:00—Cam sets up paint. Kids arrive; parents sign waivers.

09:05—perimeter walk every seven minutes; call signs, comm checks.

Bullet points march into place; order blooms. Underneath, desire thrums—unruly, insurgent. The contrast almost tears me in two.

At 04:45 the sky over the bay bruises lilac. I power down, squeeze the bridge of my nose. Another day starts in ninety minutes, and if I’m lucky I’ll snag a twenty-minute combat nap before Cam finds me.

I should be exhausted. Instead I feel blazing, alive, nerve endings humming like live wires. Because I get to guard her again. Not because I’m the only one who can—but because I’m the one who will .

And nobody—no stalker, no sniper, no other brAVO operative—is taking that from me.