Page 6

"Among other things. Jake Winters brought me on for the Club Crimson expansion. I handle event security, perimeter work, the occasional VIP situation. It's clean work."

"Clean."

"Nobody gets hurt. Nobody's in danger. The worst thing that happens is somebody has too much bourbon and tries to climb a tree." He pauses. "That actually happened last month."

A laugh catches me off guard. Full, loud, the kind that comes from your belly and takes your whole face with it. My hand goes to my mouth instinctively, but it's too late. He heard it. And the look on his face shifts, something behind his eyes going soft in a way that doesn't match the rigid posture or the tactical radio.

"That's a good laugh," he says quietly.

Professional. Stay professional. This man is security staff on your event. You report to Noah Kane. He reports to you. The chain of command exists for a reason, and that reason is specifically so people don't look at each other near hay bales while the morning light is doing unreasonable things to their jawline.

"We should check the lighting setup for the evening program," I say. Crisp. Redirected.

"Lead the way."

The evening program setup is on the upper terrace, a semicircle of lanterns around a cleared stage area where a local folk duo is performing Friday night. String lights frame the view of the valley below, and at night, when the mountain goes dark and the stars come out, this terrace is going to make people forget they have phones.

I'm adjusting a lantern placement when my foot catches on a power cable hidden in the grass. The stumble happens fast, a quick pitch forward, and my clipboard goes flying.

Dante catches me.

One arm around my waist. Firm. Automatic. His hand pressed flat against my stomach, fingers spread across the silk of my blouse. My back is against his chest. I can feel him breathing.

Neither of us moves.

His grip is warm through the fabric. Solid. The kind of hold that says he could keep me here or let me go and the choice is entirely his to make. My heart is doing something stupid in my chest, and every logical thought I own is drowned out by the simple physical fact of his body against mine.

"Careful." His voice is low. Right at my ear. Close enough that I feel the word more than hear it.

"The cable should be taped down."

"I'll tape it."

"Okay."

Still neither of us moves.

His thumb shifts against my stomach. Just slightly. A small, involuntary motion that sends heat straight down my spine into territory that has nothing to do with cable management. My breath stutters, and I know he feels it because his arm tightens by a fraction.

Then he lets go. Steps back. Picks up my clipboard, brushes grass off it, and hands it to me with an expression that is very carefully neutral.

"I'll get gaffer tape from the equipment shed."

"Tape. Yes. Good. Tape is good."

Tape. I said tape twice. I am a professional woman who just said the word tape like I've never encountered the concept before.

He walks toward the equipment shed. I stand on the upper terrace holding my clipboard against my chest, the phantom warmth of his hand still pressed into my stomach, watching him go. Broad shoulders. The henley stretches across his back when he moves. He walks with purpose, every step deliberate, a man who's never wasted a motion in his life.

My phone buzzes.

Talia:

Morning check in! How's setup? Need anything from us?

Me:

Setup on track. Adjusted two bottleneck points with the security lead this morning. Everything confirmed for tomorrow's opening.