Page 5 of The Agent’s Curvy Seduction

I shake my head hard and toss the rag into the sink. Time to go upstairs, heat up whatever’s left in the fridge, and pretend I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I reach for the light switch.

That’s when I see it.

A black SUV is parked across the street. It wasn’t there a minute ago. The windows are tinted dark. The engine is still running. My hand freezes on the switch.

The driver’s door opens.

A tall man steps out.

Broad shoulders. Black t-shirt stretched tight across a chest that looks solid as hell. Short blond hair that catches the streetlight. Hard jaw. He looks straight at the bakery like he already knows I’m inside. Like he’s been waiting.

My stomach drops so hard I feel it in my knees.

He crosses the street without rushing. Every step is controlled, measured, like he has all the time in the world and none of the doubt. When he reaches the glass door, he doesn’t knock. He just stands there, eyes locked on me through the window.

I should call the police. My phone is in my back pocket. I can feel the weight of it. Instead, I unlock the door because something in the way he stands there feels inevitable, and my hands are already moving before my brain catches up.

He steps inside. The space suddenly feels smaller, though it has less to do with his size than the way he fills a room just by deciding to be calm in it. His eyes are a sharp blue-gray that don’t blink as they take me in from head to toe. I feel every inch of the once-over like a physical touch.

He pulls a badge from his back pocket and holds it up between two fingers.

“Willow. I’m Agent Wolfe. Pack a bag. You’re coming with me.”

My real name. Not the one I’ve been using for seven months. The name I left behind with the hospital bracelets and the funeral that happened while I was still too drugged to attend. My pulse kicks hard against my throat.

“How do you know that name?”

“Because the people who killed your family know it too.” His voice is low and rough, like gravel dragged over concrete. “They’re already in the area. I’m not here to debate this with you.”

I take a step back. My hip bumps the counter. The edge digs into the scar under my jeans and I flinch before I can stop it. “I’ve built a life here. I’m not leaving again.”

“You don’t have a life here.” He puts the badge away without looking at it. “You have a temporary name and a job that doesn’t ask questions. Your father took evidence from Michaelson. Before he died, he told us he'd made a second copy and hidden it somewhere safe. Michaelson believes you know where it is. I believe you when you say you don't. Michaelson doesn't. I’m the only reason they haven’t found you yet.”

Heat climbs up my neck. Part fear. Part something else I don’t want to name. He’s standing close enough that I can smell clean soap and something darker underneath—gun oil maybe, or just the scent of a man who’s spent years doing hard things. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second when I open it to argue again.

“I didn’t ask for a bodyguard.”

“Good. Because I’m not asking either.” He leans in just enough that I have to tip my head back to keep looking at him, utterly unbothered by my glare. I feel small in a way that should piss me off. Instead it makes my stomach flip.

“Pack a bag, Willow. You’ve got ten minutes.”

I should tell him to get the hell out. The words are right there. Instead I find myself watching how still he stands, like nothing about this rattles him at all. Like arguing with a woman clutching a duffel bag is just another Tuesday. I look away fast, heat climbing into my cheeks.

“This is insane.”

“Probably.” He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften. “But you’re still coming with me.”

I stare at him for another long second. The prickling on the back of my neck is gone. Replaced by the heavy awareness of how completely in control he is and how little space he’s leaving between us. My heart is slamming so hard I’m half convinced he can hear it.

“Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t.” His answer is immediate. Honest. “But you should trust that the people hunting you don’t give a shit about your new name or your quiet little life. They only care that you’re still breathing.”

The truth of it lands like a punch. I’ve felt watched for weeks. I told myself it was nothing. I was wrong.

I turn and walk toward the back before I can talk myself out of it. My hands are shaking when I grab my purse from the hook by the office door. The stairs to the apartment above the bakery feel steeper than usual. I take them two at a time, heart still racing.