Page 22

SUTTON

The air in the cottage carried a different sense this morning. For the last three days, the silence had been peaceful, a vacuum where I could hide from the world. Now, the silence was charged, heavy with the memory of steam, the smell of cheap shampoo, and the ghost of Ben’s rough hands massaging my scalp. Softly. Gently. Hell, sexily.

Technically, since my cover was blown and Nash’s lawyers were likely drafting conservatorship papers as I sat here, I should have been spiraling into a panic. I should have been actively searching for a secure way to contact Mindy to build a defense. But after Ben had shut off the water and walked away—putting a physical wall of distance between us just before… whatever had been about to happen—the legal threat had taken a backseat to the tension vibrating in the guest house.

Ben had explicitly told me I wasn’t leaving until I was ready. I’d spent hours this morning watching mindless television, turning up the volume when a piece came on a celebrity show about my legal battles with Nash. But I relaxed when it only rehashed the same old details—nothing had leaked about my current situation. I’d spent the morning thinking more about Ben’s broad shoulders and strong hands than my current situation. I’d spent the afternoon on the gray couch with a paperback book open on my lap, though I hadn’t read a single sentence in an hour. I listened to the rain drip from the eaves and strained my ears for the specific, throaty rumble of the Ford F-250 turning into the driveway. Another note had informed me he was covering part of a shift and expected to be home sometime in the afternoon.

I was waiting to see which Ben would walk through the door. Would it be the fierce protector who had promised to stand between me and my ex-husband, or the stoic paramedic who had backed away from me in the kitchen?

At 4:15 PM, the gravel crunched outside.

My stomach did a nervous flip, a sensation usually reserved for waiting in the wings before a stadium show. I straightened my spine, smoothed the hem of yet another oversized T-shirt, and fixed my eyes on the page, pretending to be deeply engrossed in a chapter about enemies becoming lovers.

The door opened. A gust of humid, wet air swirled into the air-conditioned cool of the room, followed by Ben.

Fatigue lined his face, giving me a pang of sympathy. He wore his navy station T-shirt and work pants, his boots heavy on the laminate floor. He didn’t meet my eyes immediately. He turned to lock the door, taking his time, before dropping his keys into the bowl.

"No news vans in the driveway," he noted, keeping his tone flat and neutral.

"Just a very judgmental heron in the mangroves," I replied, closing the book. "I kept the blinds drawn."

"Good." He walked past the couch into the kitchen, maintaining a careful, deliberate distance. The tension was a thick, invisible wire stretched between us, pulsing with the memory of the kitchen sink. "How’s the ankle?"

"Better. The swelling is down."

He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, draining half of it in one long swallow. He leaned against the counter, finally meeting my gaze. His expression remained guarded, his eyes scanning my face. "You come up with a secure way to contact your assistant yet?"

I shook my head. "I can’t use your Wi-Fi, and I can’t borrow your phone. Nash’s team monitors Mindy’s calls. They’d pull your registration data and trace the number right back to this cottage."

"I figured," Ben said. "That’s why I stopped at the store on the way back."

"More generic peanut butter?" I asked, attempting a joke to break the ice.

"No."

He reached into the cargo pocket of his work pants and pulled out a rectangular cardboard box. He tossed it through the air. Reflexes honed by years of catching water bottles thrown by stagehands kicked in, and I snatched it out of the air.

It was a box for a TracFone. A cheap, prepaid flip phone that looked like a relic from 2004.

I lifted my gaze to him, stunned. "Ben?"

"It’s prepaid," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I paid cash. Activated it in the parking lot of the Walmart in Marathon. It’s untraceable. There’s no data plan, so don’t try to check Instagram, but it makes calls."

I ran my thumb over the plastic packaging. This wasn’t just a gift. It was an act of complicity. By giving me this, he was actively helping me hide. He was giving me the tools to stay off the grid. "Never thought the day would come that I’d be grateful for yet another cell phone. Thank you, Ben.”

Ben crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps flexing against the cotton of his shirt—a sight that shouldn’t have been distracting but definitely was. "I want you safe. Call your people. Let them know you’re alive so they don’t call the FBI. But you don’t have to tell them where you are."

"I will,” I said, the words feeling inadequate. "Thanks again. This is perfect."

"Don’t thank me. Just make the call." He grabbed his gym bag off the floor. "I’m going to grab a shower. You have an hour before dinner."

He walked out before I could say anything else, leaving me holding the plastic box like it was a diamond necklace. He was grumpy, he was closed off, and he was arguably the most confusing man I had ever met. But as his bedroom door at the far end of the hall clicked shut, I realized I wasn’t scared of his anger anymore. I was starting to rely on it.

I took the phone out to the back porch. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating humidity that curled the edges of the paper instruction manual. In the distance, the mangroves dripped rhythmically into the dark water below.

A wave of relief hit me so hard I folded forward to rest my forehead in my palm, elbow perched on my knee. Her usual clipped, hyper-competent tone anchored me back to a reality I had almost forgotten.

"Mindy." It came out almost a croak. I cleared my throat to say in a firmer tone, "It’s me."