“And me?”
He studies me. “You want to be understood but don’t trust anyone with the job.”
I roll my eyes, but the read is uncomfortably close. “I just don’t want to be bored.”
He flashes a half-smile, the closest I’ve seen to a real one. “Then don’t.”
We stand that way for a long time, just leaning together in the dark, and I realize I’ve stopped trying to break his walls. I’m just letting myself be there, because he’s the first person in a year who hasn’t tried to fix me or pin me in place.
I break the quiet with a ridiculously awkward statement. "My mother claims white roses are her favorite flower, but I once overheard her tell a florist they're as exciting as unseasoned poultry.'"
“She says what people want to hear.” Not a question.
“Exactly.” I kick at a stray chunk of mulch, aiming for the same casualness. “What’s your favorite flower, Cade?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Never thought about it.”
“That’s impossible.”
He’s working at something behind his eyes; I can hear the gears grinding, the restraint in every word. “I suppose I like anything that grows wild and manages not to die in this heat.”
“Even dandelions?”
“Especially those.” He glances down at me, and our eyes lock for a second too long. “They’re tougher than people think.”
I almost want to tell him that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, but I settle for snorting. “You’re such a cowboy under all that tactical gear.”
He huffs a laugh. “I prefer ‘hired muscle.’ Cowboy’s too much hat, not enough cattle.”
I tilt my head, feeling the corner of my mouth curl up. "So what you're telling me is you've got the substance without the showmanship? That's refreshing. I think I can work with that."
CHAPTER THREE
CADE
Ican’t see the stars back in Valor Springs—neon and porch lights bleach them out—but here at the Munro ranch edge, darkness presses in like damp wool. It’s past one in the morning, my fourth perimeter patrol, and every cicada’s hum bangs against my skull. My shift ended hours ago, but sleep won’t come. Maybe I’m wired, or maybe it’s Delilah—her sideways glances at dinner, that closed-lipped smile like she’s already won some warped game I haven’t learned the rules to yet.
I duck under the fence corner where the barbed wire sags, my worn leather boots slipping on dew-slick bluegrass that soaks through my pant cuffs. The Munro mansion looms ahead, a hulking silhouette against the ink-black sky, every window extinguished save for a lone porch lamp with a cracked amber shade. Moths dance frantically around it, casting jittery shadows across weathered floorboards. I almost believe she's tucked away in her room, obeying daddy's curfew for once—until a shadow flickers against the white-painted trellis, slender and deliberate as a cat burglar's fingers.
There she is, halfway down, auburn hair tumbling in loose waves over the weathered trellis. Barefoot, toes curled around the lattice like a climber’s fingers. Her oversized navy T-shirt—presumably one of her ex-boyfriend’s—hangs off one pale shoulder, and those frayed denim shorts cling to the curve of her hips where gravity has lost its fight. My pulse tightens beneath my collar, blood rushing in my ears—not fear, exactly, but something hotter and sharper, like whiskey burning down your throat.
I step forward, boots silent against the dewy grass, my voice low and steady as a loaded gun. “You are not getting past me that easily.”
She freezes mid-descent, moonlight catching the silver bracelet at her wrist. Annoyance sparks in her bright blue eyes—eyes that could cut glass when narrowed like that. Not scared. Not even startled. That would be too simple for Delilah Munro.
I close the last few feet between us, positioning my six-foot-four frame directly in her escape path, close enough that I can smell her heated scent without our bodies making contact. The night air hangs thick and still around us, the crickets falling silent as if holding their collective breath.
Delilah lifts her chin, moonlight carving shadows beneath her jawline. Her voice slices through the darkness. "I would've made it."
My jaw clenches, teeth grinding together like I'm biting down on gravel. "And I would've made it to retirement if your dad hadn't militarized this place with enough surveillance to make the Pentagon jealous."
She snorts—delicate, feminine—a sound that makes my hands flex involuntarily at my sides. Her eyes flash cold as gunmetal while she stands there, all five feet of her, spine straight as a combat knife.
“God, you are old.”
“Ancient,” I growl, my voice dropping an octave, thirty-five years of hard living suddenly heavy in my shoulders. I step closer, using every inch of my height advantage, the muscles inmy forearms tightening beneath rolled sleeves. “Ground rules: no climbing anything that will break, no marks your father will think I left, and nothing—nothing—that ends up in the security footage.”
She crosses her arms, her gaze flicking over my uniform as if it is an unsolvable equation. “You do not get to control me.”