Page 23 of Ranger's Code

I glance over my shoulder once, half-expecting to see Gideon watching me again, reading me too easily. But he’s not there. And somehow that makes it worse.

I won’t tell him. Not yet. Not until the tremor leaves my hands. Not until the dread stops scraping at my ribs like a dull blade. Not until I figure out what the hell this means—and what Chas Warren is trying to say by sending it now, when I’m already on edge.

I need to stay steady. For myself. For my business. I cling to the illusion of control amidst the spiraling mess.

Dalton and Gage arrive just before the late morning rush, posing as old military buddies in town for a visit. I know who they are, though I’ve never met them. I recognize Dalton immediately from the way Kari described him—cocky, all easy grin and reckless charm. Gage, on the other hand, is a quiet shadow—like he could blend in anywhere. He’s all sharp eyes and honed edges.

They don’t carry weapons—or at least not visibly—but the way they move, scan the space, exchange glances that mean more than words? It’s tactical. Controlled. Like they’re waiting for a breach. I’ve seen enough cooking competitions and bad reality TV to spot a team used to operating under pressure. They aren’t just visiting. They’re casing the place like it’s enemy territory. Recon unit, plain and simple. Disguised in civvies and cinnamon sugar.

Gideon introduces them with minimal fuss, and I offer them coffee and cinnamon twists without asking why they’re really here. I don’t need the answer spelled out.

Midday prep is a controlled whirlwind—flour in the air, timers beeping, staff hustling through tight choreography—and I’m right at the center. I move quickly, efficiently, hands dusted in sugar and tension, barking orders and assembling trays like my sanity depends on it.

Even so, I feel it. That pressure. That heat. I look up, and there he is. Gideon stands at the prep counter, arms folded across that annoyingly broad chest, eyes fixed on me like I’m a crime scene he’s piecing together. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

It’s not predatory, not exactly—but it’s not passive either. It’s Gideon. Focused. Intense. The kind of stare that sees more than it should and says nothing, which somehow makes it worse. My breath hitches. I drop my gaze, grab the next order slip, and will my hands to stop shaking. I can handle heat. Pressure. Chaos. I lack the ability to cope withthatkind of knowing.

He isn’t hovering. He doesn’t interrupt. He just leans against the prep counter, arms crossed, gaze locked on me like he’s reading between the lines of my every move. It’s the way his eyes track my hands. The way he doesn’t look away when I glance at him. The way he doesn’t speak, butknows, and damn it, I hate how much that gets under my skin.

I double down on my tasks, barking instructions at my staff, measuring out ingredients with a level of precision that would impress a lab tech. But my fingers tremble when I grab the next order slip, and I know he sees it.

He says nothing... neither do I.

We close late that evening, exhaustion thick in the air. Dalton and Gage clean up with practiced efficiency, and the second the door locks behind the last customer, the shop falls into a hush. Gideon keeps his distance, sensing my fraying edges. I don’t say a word as we walk back to the loft. Dalton and Gage follow behind, chatting low between themselves.

Once inside, I mumble something about needing a shower and slip into my bedroom before anyone can stop me. I don’t turn on the water. Don’t change. Just sit down on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, the silence pressing too close. I don’t cry so much as leak—slow, bitter tears that burn on the way down.

The door creaks open. I don’t look up—I don’t need to. The bed dips beside me, and a strong, warm arm slides around my shoulders. Gideon doesn’t say a word.

I turn to him and finally let myself fall.

“I got a postcard,” I whisper, voice thick.

His jaw flexes against my hair, arms tightening.

“Typed. Said, ‘We’re not done you and I.’ I think it was Chas.”

He exhales, slow and low. “Warren? He’s already on our radar.”

“You knew?”

He doesn’t deny it, and for once, I don’t push. Instead, I lean into the heat of him, my forehead resting against his chest. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

“You should be out there with them,” I mumble.

He curls his fingers under my chin and tilts my face up. “And leave you like this?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he says quietly. “But you don’t have to be.”

My breath hitches. I search his face, looking for pity, for judgment—anything I can use to shove him away. But there’s none. Just a quiet, unwavering presence.

“You’re infuriating,” I mutter.

His lips quirk. “You might find it hard to believe, but that’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

Before I can snap back, he kisses me—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that unravels me from the inside. He undresses me without hurry, like he’s peeling away all the layers I use to hold myself together. Then he strips and joins me under the covers, swallowing my weak protest about Dalton and Gage with a low growl against my throat.

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