Page 46 of Defending What's Mine

She scrutinizes my face as if comparing me to a lineup. “So, Mr. Hawke, indulge an old romantic—what are your plans once you sweep my granddaughter off the aisle?”

Charlotte stiffens. I keep my smile easy. “First, a modest honeymoon. She craves the mountains. I’m thinking something more tropical. Obviously she’ll win.”

Her grandmother’s brow arches, impressed despite herself. “And after the honeymoon?”

“I’m renovating a ranch house outside Denver,” I say, speaking about my family’s property. “Plenty of room for the libraryCharlotte wants and the rescue dogs she won’t stop talking about.”

Charlotte’s eyes widen—adoration, disbelief, or both. She recovers quickly. “He’s promised me a window seat for reading and a kitchen big enough for holiday feasts.”

“Grandchildren?” Nana Peg fires off, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Eventually,” Charlotte says before I can. “We’ll enjoy being newlyweds first.” She squeezes my hand.

I nod, adding, “Timing’s less important than raising them in a home built on trust.”

Nana Peg studies us, gaze ping-ponging between faces, seeking cracks. Finding none—at least none she can pry open—she pats Charlotte’s arm. “Well then, my dear, I’ll expect a postcard from Denver.”

“We’ll send two,” Charlotte promises, relief hidden behind a bright smile.

The matriarch glides away, cane tapping a contented rhythm. We both exhale.

Charlotte turns to me, voice a hush. “Can you believe that?”

“So, she’s accepted us.” I smile wide. “I do own a ranch house, that wasn’t a lie, though the kitchen needs work.”

Her laughter is soft, and maybe a little awed. “You’re scarily good at this, you know.”

“I meant every word.” The confession slips out before I can leash it. Her breath catches, and my own heart stutters.

Across the ballroom, Wade downs his whiskey, glare razor-sharp. Nancy whispers in his ear, eyes narrowed. Trouble is brewing. But in Charlotte’s reflected gaze I see steady trust, and for tonight that’s ammunition enough.

I offer my hand again. “Another dance, Mrs. Almost-Hawke?”

She grins, placing her palm in mine. “Lead on, Mr. Hawke.”

As I guide her back to the dancefloor, I know lines have blurred past reclaiming. The job saysprotect the asset.My heart murmursprotect the woman.

And I’m starting to realize they are one and the same.

20

Charlotte

The resort’s charity event wrapped hours ago, yet adrenaline still thrums through me like a second heartbeat. I can’t stop smiling. The boardroom, the gala tent, the way Asher stood at my side tightening his cufflinks—every moment sparkled brighter than the chandeliers overhead. Now the laughter and applause are just echoes behind us, and I step onto our suite’s balcony to catch a breath of salt-sweet night air.

The sky is a velvety blue-black, the moon a pearly orb high above. Below, lantern-lit pathways wind through gardens that shimmer with reflections of orchids and palms. Beyond that, the ocean yawns wide and dark, its gentle waves murmuring secrets to the shore.

Asher appears behind me, silent as a shadow. He hasn't touched me yet. He just stands close enough that I feel his warmth brushing my back. My pulse stutters in anticipation.

“I thought you might want to use the balcony for some… self-defense training,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate.

I turn to face him, laughter bubbling up. “Self defense? Now, after four courses of caviar and champagne?”

He smiles, tracing the line of my jaw with the tip of a finger. “You never know who might try to sneak a taste of you.”

I shiver as his thumb sweeps across my skin. “Am I in danger?” I tease.

Asher doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he steps behind me, pressing me gently against the balcony railing so his chest warms my back. He inhales softly, lips grazing the nape of my neck. “You smell incredible,” he breathes.

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