Page 37 of Defending What's Mine

“Do you think it’s from Wade?” My words tumble out in a rush. “Or someone he’s working with? Melanie said he’s involved with shady?—”

“Breathe,” Asher says, keeping his tone calm while his eyes flick from mirror to road. “We don’t know yet. But I’ll find out.”

The truck rolls onto the highway back to the resort. Anxiety buzzes under my skin, louder than the tires on the asphalt. Asher’s left hand tightens on the wheel; his right rests over the console, palm up, offering. I slide my fingers into his. He squeezes once and the buzzing quiets a notch.

“I had fun today,” I say softly, needing something normal to cling to.

A small smile flickers across his lips. “Me too. We’ll do it again, of course, without the welcome note.”

Does he really mean that?

I try to match his smile, but the paper still trembles in my free hand, and my heart pounds a fearful rhythm:He can’t protect you forever.

Maybe not forever, I think, glancing at Asher’s stoic profile. But right now, in this moment, he’s doing a damn good job. And I’m holding on for dear life.

17

Asher

The second Charlotte steps out of the truck she’s clutching that ominous sheet of paper like a talisman that might either protect her or burst into flame. She’s silent during the elevator ride—too silent for a woman who normally fills awkward spaces with quick wit—and I use the time to catalog every new security gap in my head: where I parked (exposed), how long we lingered in town (too long), and how many resort staff members might have eyes on us now. The elevator lights flicker over her face as we ascend, and I note the tell-tale signs of adrenaline crash: tremor in her hands, shallow breaths, pupils still blown wide.

Fourth floor, east wing—our suite. Inside, I lock the deadbolt, chain, and hotel-issue latch, then do my standard sweep even though housekeeping just serviced the room an hour ago. Bed skirt lifted (no one underneath), closets cleared, balcony doors tested and locked. I dim every light except the floor lamp by the sofa, creating an even wash that leaves no deep shadows for a threat to hide in. Charlotte hovers by the coffee station, arms wrapped tight around herself, hugging the note like it’s made of glass.

I pause, tempering my voice to something that won’t spike her nerves. “You need water. You rode the adrenaline wave, and now you’re dehydrating.”

She tries a shaky laugh. “Is that a medical diagnosis or a bodyguard one?”

“Both.” I hand her a chilled bottle from the minibar and wait until she’s taken two swallows. The color improves in her cheeks almost immediately. “Melanie’s expecting you?”

“She texted—wants to hit Vintner’s Lounge for girl talk.” Charlotte slides her phone across the counter so I can read the screen. No suspicious numbers, no coded language—just Melanie’s bubbly“Bring your cutest self, I’m buying the first round!”

“Stick to the main lobby route,” I say. “Bright, well-trafficked, CCTV everywhere. No side corridors.”

She salutes me—cheeky even when rattled—and disappears into the bedroom to freshen up. I set the note on the glass coffee table, snap a photo for record-keeping, then slip it inside a fresh evidence envelope from my kit and seal it. My brain runs concurrent subroutines: who planted it, why risk a public drop, what messageexactlywas intended?Fairytales don’t end well for liars—that’s literary flair, not brute intimidation. Someone clever. Someone who thinks theatrics matter.

Charlotte re-emerges in a teal wrap dress and wedge sandals, hair twisted up to reveal the graceful line of her neck. She looks composed, but her knuckles are still white on the strap of her purse. I force my attention away—client, Hawke, remember?—and do a 360° evaluation: clear earrings (nothing dangly an assailant can grab), shoulders back, eyes alert. Good.

“I’ll walk you to the lobby,” I say.

She arches a brow. “You’re not coming to happy hour? Might do you some good. You can scowl in the corner and intimidate the sommelier.”

“Tempting,” I deadpan, “but I’ve got calls to make.”

She opens her mouth, probably to protest that she doesn’t need babysitting, then thinks better of it. “Fine. Two-minute escort. Then you get to go be mysterious in your lair.”

In the hallway I keep my body canted slightly ahead of hers, a subtle shield. Charlotte keeps pace, her shoulders relaxing the farther we get from the suite. By the time we enter the elevator, she’s cracking jokes about how I breathed so much “predatory vibe” at the boutique owner earlier that the poor woman tried to upsell me beard oil. I play along, but my attention keeps snaring on reflective sconces, on the jogger who squeezes past in the corridor, on the too-long glance from a suited businessman checking in at the desk.

At the lobby’s marble threshold I stop. “Text when you sit down. Then every thirty minutes.”

“Yes,Dad.”

I lean in, lowering my voice. “If you feel eyes on you, or anything looks wrong, you call my cell. Speaker on, keep the line open. Understand?”

She nods, and something in her gaze shifts. For all her sass she likes knowing someone’s on the wall. Melanie appears, bright red lipstick and a sun-floral jumpsuit, and swoops Charlotte away. I watch until they disappear beneath the glowing arch into Vintner’s Lounge. Only then do I turn for the service elevatorand punch the button for sublevel two—staff offices. Time to phone home.

I choose a maintenance alcove between the linen room and refrigeration. The scent of bleach masks conversation; the hum of air handlers provides natural white noise. I dial Dean’s secure line. He answers before the second ring.

“Talk to me, Hawke.”

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