Page 18 of Riggs
“We’re already here,” I say, and let myself have one more second with her before I turn away. I can’t cross this line no matter how much I want to.
Tomorrow, we talk to Turner. Tomorrow, I walk Caleb out of a room and hand him to an FBI agent who loves paperwork. Tomorrow, we tighten everything until “close” becomes “caught.”
Tonight, I keep watch, and she sleeps. That’s the job. I just need to keep reminding myself of that fact.
6
Vanessa
Morning smells like hotel coffee and rain—that soft Seattle drizzle that turns the whole city into a watercolor. I wake to the memory of Riggs’s palm warm at the back of my neck and the cardboard edges of that awful note. Fear tries to creep back in. However, it hits a wall named Andy Riggs and slips off in the other direction.
Today’s stop:atelier, capital letters implied. (Eye roll) A designer the internet worships has loaned an entire rack for a try-on reel and “spontaneous” Behind-the-Scenes. Translation: five looks, three reels, a dozen photos, and a small army juggling steamers and garment bags while pretending we’re casual.
Riggs walks me down the service stairs two steps ahead, voice low on comms as he checks with Rae and Jaxson. His hand finds its usual place at my lower back as we cross into the loading bay, a light touch that somehow grounds my entire nervous system.
“Remember,” he says as the SUV door closes behind us. “We use the side entrance. No live posts. Your team stays in sight. If something feels off, you say it out loud.”
“Yes, Dad,” I tease, then soften. “Yes, Beard-Mountain.”
His mouth almost smiles. “Better.”
The boutique is a box of light tucked on a cobblestoned side street, all pale wood and glass and the kind of minimalism that costs a fortune. The designer—Elodie, long braid, measuring tape around her neck like a stethoscope—meets us at the side door with a flurry of cheek kisses and a breathless, “You angel, I’ve wanted you in my pieces since that rooftop video.”
Riggs’s brows tilt a fraction, and I pat his arm likestand down, it’s fashion. He’s already scanning—mirrors, corners, the reflection in the front window where a couple lingers with cappuccinos. He posts a hotel guard at the alley door, wedges something invisible under the hinge, and sets his back in a position that lets him own both exits with one glance.
Brice materializes in a cloud of stress and hair gel. “Okay, okay,” he claps. “We’re on a forty-minute window before the press call. Looks one through five, starting with the blue drape. Slo-mo twirl. Laugh like you’ve never laughed before. Then the gold lamé?—”
“Thewhat?” Riggs deadpans.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him, grinning. “You’ll like it.”
He grunts. “Doubtful.”
My PA, Lina, thrusts a bottle of water into my hand, already talking in list form. “Steamer’s on, mics are charged, pins are in my pocket, you’ve got your secure phone—” She pats my bag as if she can soothe last night’s ghost away. I squeeze her fingers, grateful.
Elodie leads me behind a velvet curtain into the fitting area: three stalls, one mirror the size of a door, another mirror angled to catch the other mirror, which makes Riggs twitch. The lighting is warm and generous. The rack is a dream—silks in colors that make you sayohaloud, a slinky column in black, a gold lamé slip that looks like the inside of a champagne flute, a navy suit cut like sin.
Riggs stations himself just outside the curtain, feet braced, profile set. His gaze does its sweep: front door, back door, a delivery guy with a box of ribbons, a girl across the street pretending not to film. He doesn’t look into the fitting room, but I feel him like a gravity shift.
“Look one in sixty seconds,” Brice chirps, clapping. “Back-to-front pan, snatch and twirl?—”
“I am not snatching,” I say, laughing. “But I will twirl.”
Elodie helps me into the blue drape, a one-shoulder silk that feels indecent just totouch, let alone step into. “It was made to move,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Let it.”
I step out. Riggs answers with silence that says more than words. His eyes track me head to toe in one slow pass that heats every inch his gaze touches. He doesn’t move his hands. He doesn’t have to. The air moves.
“How do I look?” I toss it to the room, but I’m aiming for one man.
Brice says, “Perfect!” Elodie sighs, “Iconic.” Lina beams like a proud cousin.
Riggs finally blinks. “Like trouble,” he says quietly. “The good kind.”
Warmth blooms under my skin. “Use it,” he adds, and the way he saysusefeels like permission and a dare.
We film the first reel. I walk toward the camera, turn, laugh at nothing and everything, let the silk catch the air like a secret. Riggs shifts with me, always at my periphery. Between takes he hands me sips of water without looking away from the door, murmuring, “Two steps left—mirror,” or “Hold—reflection,” and I adjust like we’re dancing. We kind of are.
Look two is the black column. No slit, no lace—just line. I slip into it and forget to breathe. The fabric slides over me like a yes. I step out, and the room gets quieter. Even Brice pauses.
