Page 33 of Defending What's Mine

15

Asher

We leave the lake behind, the trail narrowing beneath our feet. The hush of the water fades into birdsong and wind through the trees. Charlotte walks beside me, her hair caught by the occasional breeze, sunlight dancing across her cheekbones. There’s a softness to her now—less guarded than I’ve seen her all week. I file that away.

I keep my hands loose in my pockets, forcing myself tonotlook at her every damn second. The mission still stands—protect, observe, report—but out here, in this pocket of quiet, it’s easy to forget about strategy. About why we’re here at all.

“You know,” she says, voice light, “that was a good idea.”

I glance her way, and damn if it doesn’t hit me again—how natural she looks here, out of the designer clothes, away from the careful angles of her family’s expectations. Just Charlotte. And she’s beautiful.

“Sometimes the simplest things help the most,” I say, meaning every word.

She bumps my arm with her elbow, teasing. “You sound like a wise old mountain man.”

I huff a laugh. “Old? I’ll take wise. You can keep the old.”

She grins, eyes sparkling. “Fine. Rugged and worldly, then.”

“Better.” I let my gaze linger on her mouth for just a second too long. Idiot. Control yourself. But she catches it—her breath hitches. Subtle, but I’m trained to read everything.

I refocus, scanning the trail ahead. Old habits.

“You always this good at skipping rocks?” she asks.

“Had a lot of practice.” I keep my tone easy, but part of me’s already down a rabbit hole—deployments, downtime, men killing time any way they could. “Sometimes keeping your hands busy is all that keeps your head on straight.”

She looks at me then—really looks. There’s warmth in her eyes, understanding. It hits harder than it should.

But before it sinks too deep, I tip my head toward her and say lightly, “You weren’t bad. We’ll make a pro out of you yet.”

She lifts her chin. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” I murmur. I want her to hold me to more than that, and that thought shouldn’t even be in my head.

We round a bend and the resort comes into view, rooftops gleaming against the sky. Reality creeps back in. Family. Watchful eyes. An engagement we’re pretending to live.

“You forget it’s pretend sometimes,” I find myself saying. The words slip out before I can stop them.

She halts mid-step, looking up at me. “Yeah.” Her voice is soft. “Sometimes.”

It takes everything I have to look away first, to shove those words down deep where they belong. “Let’s go,” I say, voice rougher than intended. “Can’t have your fiancé showing up late.”

As we near the main path, voices carry from the terrace. Nancy Sinclair, Charlotte’s mother, her grandmother. I spot Wade’s father too, which triggers an instant uptick in awareness. No sign of Wade himself, but the man’s name is stamped in the back of my mind. Always a threat.

Charlotte steps instinctively closer to me as we approach. I angle my body slightly, shielding her without thinking. When we hit the edge of the terrace, I slide an arm naturally around her waist and lean down, murmuring near her ear.

“Back in character,” I say softly. “You okay?”

She nods once. “Got it.”

We step onto the terrace, perfectly timed smiles in place. The matriarchs beam at us.

“There they are,” Margaret says brightly. “Such a sweet couple, always off adventuring.”

“Needed some fresh air,” Charlotte replies, voice even, though her fingers thread tightly through mine as we stand together. I squeeze gently. Reassurance. She holds on.

“Everyone’s heading to the beach this afternoon,” her grandmother chimes in. “We’ll see you two there?”

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