Page 36 of Defending What's Mine

“Thank you, Millie,” I say, smiling back at her.

Asher keeps the novel in one hand while I weave deeper into the stacks, scooping up a collection of poetry for myself. When we reach the counter, Millie rings us up with a conspiratorial smile.

“Jack London’s one of my favorites,” she says, sliding the worn hardback into a paper bag. “That edition has a few margin notes from the previous owner. Makes it feel alive.”

Asher’s stoic mask cracks for half a second—genuine appreciation flickers in his eyes. “Thanks,” he says, tone softer than I’m used to hearing.

I pay for both books before he can argue. He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a playful glare. “Call it reconnaissance. I need to know your taste in literature.”

Outside, sunlight bounces off the vintage lettering of the boutique next door—SeaGlass & Silk. Dresses and handmade jewelry glimmer in the window.

“Five-minute detour,” I announce, linking my arm with his. “I need a gift for Melanie.”

He huffs but allows himself to be towed. Inside, the boutique smells of eucalyptus and vanilla. Racks of airy sundresses line one wall while glass cases sparkle with delicate gemstone pendants.

Asher positions himself automatically near the entrance—human security camera—yet his gaze drifts to a display of leather-bound journals. He thumbs one open, tracing the embossed compass rose on the cover.

“You have a weakness for battered books and blank pages,” I tease, fingering a turquoise necklace.

“Tools of the trade,” he replies, nodding at the journal. “Plans, maps, contingency notes.”

“Poems,” I counter, handing him a pen from a crystal cup. “Maybe something about sunsets and cavalry charges.”

He almost smiles. “More like exit routes and radio frequencies, but I’ll consider it.”

I choose the necklace and a silk scarf for Melanie; Asher buys the journal despite token resistance. When we step back onto the street, canvas bags swinging between us, we wander to another little shop.

I try on a pair of comically oversized sunglasses shaped like flamingos. Asher snorts. “If you wear those to the resort, Nancy Sinclair’s head will explode.”

“Tempting,” I say, striking a pose. His gaze lingers a second too long, and heat prickles across my cheeks. Flamingo glasses go back on the rack in self-defense.

By mid-afternoon our bags hold scented candles, the vintage leather-bound journal for Asher, our books, Melanie’s gift, and a tiny succulent I’ve christenedSpike. We exit the last store, still laughing about the elderly shop owner who tried to sell Asher a “real cowboy hat, guaranteed to make your woman swoon.”

We’re halfway across the parking lot when the laughter drains from my chest. A prickling awareness crawls up my spine. There’s the undeniable sense of being watched. I slow, eyes darting across the sun-baked windshields and reflective shop windows. There’s a mother wrangling toddlers, a teenager scrolling her phone, two retirees debating license-plate tags—normal, harmless…yet the feeling clings.

Asher notices. “What’s wrong?”

“Just… a vibe.” My voice sounds thin, silly even, but he doesn’t dismiss it. He scans the lot, jaw set.

We reach the truck. Asher unlocks the passenger door, but I freeze. A folded piece of paper is tucked beneath the windshield wiper. Plain white, no logo, justthere.

Asher sees it too. “Stay back.” He plucks the note, eyes narrowed, then unfolds it with deliberate care. His shoulders tense.

“What does it say?” I whisper, hugging the shopping bags like a shield.

He hesitates, then hands it to me. The paper is cheap, the message typed, impersonal… except for the threat oozing between the words:

“FAIRYTALES DON’T END WELL FOR LIARS.

HE CAN’T PROTECT YOU FOREVER.”

There’s no signature. No hint of whoheis. But I know. My stomach knots itself into origami.

I look up, and Asher’s expression is granite-hard, eyes scanning the perimeter. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“But—”

“Charlotte.” His voice brooks no argument. He ushers me into the cab, bags and all, then does a quick sweep of the truck bed before climbing in. As he starts the engine, my hands shake so badly the note rattles on my lap.

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