Page 5 of Riggs
I run a hot shower, trying to let the steam clear my head. All it does is make me remember the look in his eyes last night—calm, professional, utterly unreadable. He handed me a secure phone as casually as he might’ve passed me the salt. His fingers brushed mine briefly, and even that faint, accidental contact made my stomach flip.
Pull it together, Vanessa. He’s doing his job.
But my mind rewinds to our first meeting at Camille Kingsley’s place. Even then, he’d made me curious. Quiet strength, controlled movements, and that ridiculously sexy nickname, Beard-Mountain, I’d tossed his way half-joking, half-teasing. He’d barely reacted. Just one dark eyebrow lifting, like he was amused beneath the stone surface he shows the world. It was so incredibly hot.
I towel off, throw on jeans, boots, and a loose sweater—the influencer’s version of travel-casual, enough effort to survive a candid photo, comfy enough for a 6 a.m. flight. I check my reflection, letting my hair fall in loose waves. Riggs isn’t the only one who can pull off effortlessly cool.
My phone buzzes once, a gentle reminder from Riggs’s secure device:
SUV downstairs. Leaving in 10.
I slip on oversized sunglasses, grab my carry-on, and step into the hall. Riggs waits outside my door, leaning casually against the wall. He straightens instantly, eyes sharp, alert, scanning me quickly as if assessing my readiness for travel. Or threats. Today he’s in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that definitely belong in one of those rugged ads for expensive watches or whiskey. Again, incredibly hot.
I clear my throat, trying to sound less flustered than I feel. “Good morning, Beard Mountain.”
“Morning.” He nods toward my bag. “Need help?”
“Nope.” I tighten my grip. “I’ve got it.”
He lifts a brow but doesn’t argue. He just turns smoothly, leading the way toward the elevator. His back is broad, stronglines of muscle shifting beneath his shirt. I force myself to look away, but my eyes keep slipping back to him like magnets to metal.
In the elevator, I attempt small talk to fill the silence. “So, ever been to Seattle?”
“Few times,” he says, his voice low, calm, effortlessly composed. “Mostly for work.”
“What do you do when it’s not work?”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye, amused. “Hike. Fish. You know, typical mountain man shit. Not that I get nearly enough downtime.”
“Fair enough.” I smile, nudging him lightly with my shoulder, craving any kind of connection. “I guess downtime isn’t your thing.”
He pauses, then sighs softly. “Downtime gets people hurt.”
It’s quiet again, and guilt gnaws at my stomach. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I know this isn’t ideal.”
His eyes soften slightly. “Not your fault. I’ll do my job, and you do yours. We’ll get through this.”
When the doors open, he gently guides me through the lobby, hand settling lightly on the small of my back. The touch sends warmth spiraling through me. It feels protective, almost personal. Exactly the sort of thing I shouldn’t read into, and exactly the sort of thing I can’t ignore.
The drive to the airport is quiet. The city’s still mostly asleep, streets half-empty under dim amber lights. Riggs sits next to me, gaze never resting, scanning sidewalks and mirrors, one strongthigh close enough to mine that I can feel his heat. Every cell in my body is acutely aware of him, cataloging each breath, each subtle shift.
At the airport, Riggs immediately takes charge. “Stay close. Your team will be catching the next flight and will be just behind us,” he says quietly. He maneuvers us through the crowds like a man on a mission, eyes sharp, broad shoulders clearing a subtle path. The ease with which he moves through space is intoxicating—people step aside instinctively, sensing his authority.
In the security line, a younger woman with bright pink hair and a backpack plastered with travel patches does a double-take when she spots me. Recognition flickers, and her eyes widen. I see it a mile away. Ugh, fan mode activated.
“Oh my God,” she whispers excitedly, fumbling for her phone. “Are you Vanessa Mercado?”
“I am,” I say warmly, pulling down my sunglasses. “Good morning!”
She beams, holding out her phone eagerly. “Can we do a selfie?”
Riggs growls out a ‘no’, and I pout. I’m not used to this. I’m used to giving my fans whatever they want. It’s probably why I’m in this mess to begin with.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize to the woman, and she waves me off.
“That’s okay! I love your posts.” She beams, and Riggs watches closely, not interrupting, though his posture subtly shifts like a guard dog on alert.
I lean in and smile brightly, giving the girl my usual cheery, approachable vibe. “Thank you.”
