My head is still reeling by the time I step out of the plane and through the gate at San Francisco International Airport.

My father hovers so close at my back he’s practically smothering me. I hadn’t expected him to show up to chaperone me from Seattle to San Fran, but he’s been this mute, glowering presence in a fine Italian wool suit the entire time, ignoring me for his laptop and tersely muttered calls.

The phone calls give me tiny heart palpitations even though I know that thing about cell phones messing with the flight controls isn’t true anymore...mostly.

I should feel safer with Daddy around, but mostly I feel like I’ve been tossed through a whirlwind.

Just three hours ago, I was still in my Seattle hotel, while Milah made a dozen phone calls and furiously helped me throw my things into my luggage. She wouldn’t even let me go home for my own stuff.

It should probably disturb me that my sister knows this much about running from the mob, but honestly, it’s a comfort that someone knows what to do.

At least she remembered to grab my notebook.

Milah’s a lot of things, not all of them great, but she remembers the little things. She knows what's important to me. And it's those small, subtle details that remind me my sister is still there behind her struggle with addiction.

Right now, though, I’ve got to think about my own struggles – and this man I’m supposed to be meeting from the security agency, Riker Woods.

I’d tried to write on the flight, but I was too keyed-up remembering yesterday. The sound of gunshots, the way blood smells both hot and crisp. Struggling with the horrid feeling of being completely alone with my father right there, yet so far out of reach.

I should probably remember the details of the attack for my book, but right now it feels so raw and real that I can’t really think about writing it down.

And I can’t think about what I’m walking into when Milah’s set me up to stay with someone from Landon Strauss’ security agency.

Yes, the Landon Strauss – husband of the Kenna Burke-now-Strauss, my writing idol. She's an international bestselling romance author.

I doubt I’ll get to meet her, of course.

But that doesn't shake how I've been fascinated with her since the documentary on what happened to my sister, and I’ve read all her novels. I think, before I watched a man get shot at my feet, I was firmly in my “I want to be Kenna when I grow up” phase.

Who knows, maybe writing novels could give me an independent life of my own. Something I earned for myself instead of –

“Miss Holly?” A rough voice cuts in.

I’d been busy scanning the crowd without really seeing anyone. Now I'm standing at the gate with my suitcase propped on its wheels and dangling from one hand, my father next to me with his hand on my arm, like I’m going to run away if he lets me off my leash.

His grip is a little too tight, hurting me just a bit, but I don’t have it in me to say anything right now.

I’m lost in my thoughts, detached, because there’s a scream building up inside me and I can’t let it out in the middle of a public airport terminal. But it almost bursts from my lips as a deep, gravelly voice to my side speaks my name, calling me Miss Holly as if he’s addressing royalty he isn’t quite sure he particularly likes or not.

I turn slowly.

I'm expecting to see some big, bald guy in aviator glasses and a tank top, tattoos and muscles everywhere. Probably a huge belt buckle. Or maybe some kid my age, clean shaven, first job fresh out of college, bouncing around like a puppy and eager to please.

Instead, I find this man's quiet, searing green gaze looking into me.

It's as clear as sea glass and just as intensely translucent, set against a dark tan of weathered skin creased into lines around deep-set, thoughtful eyes. He’s tall, so tall it almost hurts my neck to look up at him, but he has a certain grace in the way he carries himself, with his button-down shirt sleeves cuffed to his elbows and casually tucked into neatly pressed slacks that frame long legs and strong hips.

The arcs of dark hair along his brawny, hard-set arms are the same chocolate brown as the neatly combed sweep of his hair and beard, touched with silver at the temples and the chin.

God, he’s handsome.

The kind of whoa, mama handsome that makes you stop and look again because it seems too effortless to be real.

The kind that makes me think of a stern teacher whose dark, smoldering looks promise there’s a dirty secret under his uptight demeanor.

The perfect kind of screw the world edge in his stance that tells me Riker Woods is about to make my world even more complicated than I ever dreamed.

Not what I was expecting.

Not at all.

Though there’s nothing consciously smoldering about the way he looks at me right now. He studies me like I’m a particularly puzzling package he doesn’t quite know how to open, before he repeats, “Miss Holly? You are Olivia Holly, yeah?”

“Um, yeah.” I’m at a loss for what to do in this situation, and my lips try to tie themselves around each other. My cheeks burn, and I offer a hand. “Liv. You can call me Liv.”

He looks down at my hand. His own are both tucked into the pockets of his slacks, his hips cocked with a sort of devil-may-care assurance.

He doesn’t shake my hand, doesn’t even take his hands out of his pockets.

I let my hand drop.

O-kay then.

What the hell did Milah get me into?

“Mr. Woods, I presume?” My father breaks the icy silence first.

His voice is cold in a way I’ve never heard before, and when I glance back at him, he’s watching Riker with his blue eyes narrowed, like Riker just spit on his priceless antiques or six-figure platinum watch.

Riker says nothing, looking past me to my father. I can almost see the calculation in his eyes, the way he takes Daddy’s measure in a silence that feels electrically charged.

I get the feeling that Riker isn’t a man to be spoken to like a lackey, or commanded in any way, even if he's technically on my father's payroll.

And honestly, after a lifetime of seeing people too afraid to stand up to my father...

He’s fascinating.

Riker takes his sweet time before he finally answers. “I am.”

Two simple words.

My father sniffs. He’s got his Fortune 500 Corporate Mogul face on right now, looking down his nose like he’s royalty assessing a peasant. “I trust I don’t need to remind you how much I’m paying for you to look after my daughter,” he says, and I cringe, hunching into myself.

What’s my price tag, then?

How much did it take for Daddy to pass me off to another man like nothing?

“I trust,” Riker responds coolly, “that you don’t need to tell me how to do my job. That's Landon's gig.” His gaze then returns to me, skewering. “Car’s this way, Miss Holly,” he murmurs, and turns on his heel, his powerful stride carrying him across the terminal floor like he owns the freaking airport.

Holy hell.

Daddy’s brow clouds over, lightning gathering in his eyes, and oh God he’s about to lose his temper and have a do you know who I am? moment.

I’ve got to head it off. Quickly, I rest my hand on his arm, stretch up on my toes, and kiss his cheek. “Love you, Daddy,” I say. “Let it go. I’ll be okay. Thank you for doing this for me.”

Under my touch, the tension in his arm relaxes some, though not by much.

But he tears his gaze from Riker’s retreating back and looks down at me. Looks through me, preoccupied and not really seeing me, the ghost I’ve always been extra transparent today.

At last, he dredges up a distracted smile, and leans down to kiss the top of my head.

“Of course, dearest,” he says. “Money's no object when it comes to you.”

I don’t know how to tell him that money is never what I wanted from him.

So I don’t say anything.

Just squeeze his arm, force a brave smile, and murmur, “I’ll see you soon when it's all over. You be safe too, okay?”

He doesn’t even answer me, other than an absent nod and patting my hand.

He’s already on his phone, frowning to himself while he flicks through emails. It’s not hard to tell.

He’s just waiting for me to leave. Buzz off, so he can get back to his business and his oh-so-important obligations.

If I had the time and energy to spare, I'd be angry.

After being tied to him by apron strings or tie clips or whatever for my entire life, having him suddenly so indifferent...

It’s like the whole world pulled out from under me, and I’m in free fall.

I'm still feeling like a chastised child as I bow my head and trudge after Riker, dragging my suitcase behind me – only to yelp as he’s suddenly there, standing in front of me, blocking my path.

Jesus. Do I need another set of eyes to keep tabs on this guy?

I’m not very good with jump-scares. I can’t even watch PG-13 horror movies on a good day, and him materializing so close in front of me that I can smell the deep, smoky scent of his cologne is enough to get me stumbling back with that stifled scream I’d been bottling up squeaking out.

My heel turns the wrong way.

I start to tumble, windmill, fall.

Then that brawny arm is around my waist. I land there with an oomph.

It's like being captured by a steel cable surging with heat. He jerks me upright like I weigh less than a flower petal, handling me easily, pulling me against a feeling of strength and safety and power that bristles through his neat, straight-laced clothing.

I'm not sure what lights my cheeks on fire more: almost impacting the floor flat on my face or being in this man's arms.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod. Or rather, I try. I can't peel my eyes off him.

It’s like someone dressed a feral panther as a man and told it to act civilized. And maybe something primitive in me reacts to that hidden animal and all his strength when he’s holding me like prey, looking down like he doesn’t know if he wants to protect or devour me whole.

One word comes to my what-the-hell-is-happening mind.

Forbidding. That’s a good word for Riker Woods.

Everything he is, from the stiff set of his shoulders to the hawk-eyed way he looks at me, says stay away.

But here I am, clutching at his arms to keep myself standing, my entire body arched closer than close while I try to process what just happened.

“You're okay then?” he echoes again. “Tell me you haven't gone deaf.”

“Right. I'm fine. Think my shoe just caught in all the excitement. Um, sorry.” It's hard to form words.

He says nothing. He doesn’t seem to like to talk much.

He just leans down – bringing him close enough that his stubble grazes along my cheek, rasping and rough – and sets me carefully on my feet. He holds me just a second longer to help find my balance before he pulls away.

Then his face tightens, and those eyes are like daggers.

“Don't apologize. Let's go be fine somewhere that isn't this terminal. We're late.”

For the briefest moment, his hand rests on the small of my back, thick fingers long enough that the heel of his palm touches one hip and his fingertips touch the other, making my stomach flip over wildly.

Then he pulls away, dips to catch the handle of my suitcase, and turns to drag it behind him, and I realize that’s what he wanted all along.

The suitcase. Duh.

Not me.

I’d ask myself why that stings, but I already know.

He just wants me to move my feet.

My emotions are all over the place. I'm already way too curious about him, and acting totally foolish.

This is real life. I'm not some insta-love little girl from Kenna Strauss' romance books.

I'm not anything to Riker Woods, and he damn sure isn't anything to me except more trouble.

It's got to be this state of mind.

I’m scared out of my wits after what happened last night, and I’ve never been without someone to shelter and protect me. I’ve always had someone to stroke my hair and say It’ll be all right over even the smallest situation, and this most definitely isn’t a small situation.

I need someone right now. I'm desperately craving some kind of human warmth, someone strong who cares that I’m frightened and would offer even a single kind word to help ease the fear.

Instead, I have a sister who can't be there for me. Not this time. Not now, between her own demons and the necessary distance.

Instead, I have a father who brushed me off like I was nothing and handed me over to a man who looks at me like I’m the one who’s done something wrong. As if I’ve somehow ruined his life, or at least like I'm one more burden.

As if he’s angry with me, and I don’t even know why.

The silence in the car is almost more than I can handle.

Riker drives one of those big, rugged, modernized Jeep Wranglers, the kind of vehicle that can survive a hurricane or go skimming across the sand on a fun beach weekend. I don’t want to admit it, but the car makes me feel safer.

It's not like the Lincolns, Escalades, and Teslas I've spent half my life in. It’s solid, sturdy, an enclosed space with blackout windows that mean no one can see me. And I’m riding alone with the one person I can trust who won't hurt me, if only because he’s getting paid for it.

We’ve been weaving through highway traffic for a while. I’m leaning my head against the sun-warmed window and looking outside when he speaks, breaking a silence ruled by the Wrangler’s rumble and the snarl of other cars around us.

“One golden rule,” he says. He has a sort of clipped way of speaking, like every word has to be excavated out of the gravel bed in his throat and pried free. “And only one. No matter how crazy things get, follow my lead.”

I lift my head, turning to look at him. He’s all eyes on the road and graven stone, that flinty green stare impossible to read.

I frown. “That’s it? Don’t question, just follow? Sorry, but I guess I expected –”

“Asking questions when people are throwing bullets is how you get shot. One rule, Miss Holly. If you can’t follow it, this won’t work.”

There it is. Pointed and sharp.

“Fine,” I mumble, slumping down in the passenger seat. If only because I, you know, don’t actually want to get shot.

But I’m being petulant. I know it.

I should just swallow my pride and listen. He has to know better...right?

I can’t help my second-guessing. My entire life, I’ve been following everyone’s lead.

Of course, I want to test the boundaries the one moment when following the lead of the man safeguarding my life makes every bit of sense.

Call it the legacy of a lifetime in Milah’s shadow. Even now, I don’t even have my own problems.

I have Milah’s issues, and I’m being pushed around at her whim, doing this to make Daddy feel better that I’m somewhere safe. Away from what he, on the drive to the airport in Seattle, ominously called “cleanup.”

That isn't the fault of the beast-man in the driver's seat.

So I try a different tactic – offering a faint smile. It can’t hurt to be friendly.

“Aye-aye, captain. One rule. Got it. If all goes well, I shouldn’t be your problem for long. Just have to convince my sister it’s safe for us both to testify to the FBI. She’s afraid they’ll drag her in by association.”

“And in the meantime, the longer you wait, the farther we get from any hope of catching the people who did this,” Riker says grimly. “The Feds are your best shot. Local police may have handled the scene, but they can’t be trusted. Not with hardcore hit men.”

I bite my lip. Hit men. Like I need the reminder.

“I...I know that. And believe me, I want to testify ASAP. I’m supposed to, as soon as I’m ready, I just...” I shake my head. “I know Milah’s worrying about nothing. That it doesn’t work this way. She's scared for her career and her past catching up to her. But she’s my sister and I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Does she have the same consideration for you?”

I flinch. My hands hurt from where I’m clutching at the seatbelt.

We've all heard of Captain Obvious. Is Riker Captain Blunt?

How is it that this man only met me half an hour ago, but can already see things like that about me?

How does he have the balls to throw it in my face?

And hell, how does he see me, really see me, when it feels like he looks right through me as though I’m not even there?

Wetting my lips, I look away, out the window again. “She didn’t mean to create this problem.”

“But she did.”

“She’s gotten clean!” I shoot back. Now, I'm getting angry.

My eyes are burning, blurring, and I rub at them with the heel of my palm. “Look, it's not your business, what goes on with her and me. It’s the past. Ancient history. We’ll fix it, we'll make it through, and it’ll go away.”

“Just like that, sweetheart? Interesting. You don’t even have a guarantee that if you testify, the police will get the right criminals. Not with two groups involved.”

My heart sinks for several reasons. Mostly because I let this royal prick break my fall, and before I knew better, I liked it.

“Thanks for the reminder. Is there anything else you want to tell me about how wrong I am?” I fire back. “I get it. I’m in over my head. I don’t know what I’m doing. I'm not all uptight and badass and I've never held a gun. So I should just listen. Swallow your advice. And my options are...what again? Do nothing? Just shut up and let you call all the shots?”

He says nothing. But the air in the car shifts subtly, and after a few icy seconds, he glances at me contemplatively, that hard glass of his gaze no longer quite so impenetrable. “Right now, don’t worry about it,” he murmurs. “You’re under a lot of stress. We'll worry about the details once you’ve had time to calm down and feel safe.”

I arch a brow. The shift in demeanor surprises me.

I think this big rock is actually trying to comfort me.

He turns his gaze back to the road. I lower my eyes, tangling my fingers together in my lap and picking at the hem of my sundress. “Okay. Yeah. I guess I’m not in the best place to be making decisions right now.”

“Likely not. Stress and trauma affect the logic centers of your brain.” The rumble of the car shifts around us as he eases toward the off-ramp. “But I also need us to not discuss this any further until I say.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because we’re picking my daughter up from school, and as her father, I decide how much she knows.”

His daughter. Right.

I gulp, twisting my fingers harder in my dress. This man makes me prickle all over with nerves, but I’m suddenly ten times more afraid of meeting his daughter.

She’s twelve, I was told during the briefing...and I’m just supposed to pretend to be her new stepmother-in-progress, engaged to this walking brick who barely spares me a glance.

Right. Somehow, bullets no longer seem so bad.

“Fine,” I whisper. “I won’t say anything I shouldn't.”

“Thank you.”

I don’t know what to say.

So I don’t say anything at all.

Not even when we pull up outside a two-story brick school campus, and a petite little bundle of energy comes rocketing into the back seat with her Star Trek backpack in her lap and adorable clip-on communicator earrings. She freezes in the middle of shutting the door, staring at me in the rear-view mirror. I look back, feeling like I’ve just been caught doing something wrong.

“Um,” she says. “Dad? Who's she?”

“Just close the door,” Riker answers flatly. “I’ll explain when we get home, honey.”

I think I’m going to start hyperventilating.

I’m sitting in Riker’s living room. I guess for now it’s technically my living room, since that’s the story we’re going with.

A cover story that makes me feel like I've been turned inside out.

Quick rundown: we’re in love, whirlwind courtship, and now Riker wants to integrate me into the family so his daughter and I get used to each other before our actual marriage.

His house looks like the perfect place a woman in love would want to come home to.

It's small, cozy, rustic. Nothing like the spacious mansions I’m used to, and everything like what you’d imagine an Average American home would be, with all these fatherly personal touches and little bits of them everywhere. From a shelf lined with dog-eared sci-fi novels to an open door giving me a glimpse into a workshop where a ship in a bottle sits on a desk, waiting to be finished.

This is their place.

And I shouldn’t be here, screwing up their lives.

They’re in the kitchen now. I can’t tell what they’re saying, just a low murmur of voices, but no one sounds upset.

The daughter – her name is Emily, and I hope she won’t get mad at me for calling her that – just sounds curious and thoughtful. She talks a little bit like her father, like she’s got a lot to say but she’s trying to condense it down to as few words as possible.

But there’s a more youthful openness to it, too. While Riker seems more closed off, a glacier of a man, I can't help wondering if he was more like her as a boy.

I shouldn’t be wondering anything.

I’m not part of their lives. It’s just pretend.

There’s no real bond between us, and it’s nothing but a formal arrangement. We're a business transaction. Nothing more.

I don’t know them. I don’t know anything. Like where Emily’s birth mother must be, or why Riker even agreed to this when he clearly doesn’t want to have me here.

I guess it’s his job, and maybe the boss made it an order?

Here I am, being someone else’s burden again.

All I’ve ever wanted was to learn how to stand on my own, but it feels like now that'll never happen. Until the FBI catches the people after my sister, I’ll always be looking over my shoulder.

Heck, maybe always spending my life shuttled from safe house to safe house and false identity to false identity. I don’t know what’s going to happen to Milah if this gets worse. Her life is in the public spotlight, and she can’t just disappear. Though she also has practice navigating this mess of personal security and personal threats from random nutjobs.

It’s also a lot harder to get to her because she’s so famous.

I’m the one who can disappear all too easily, with no one even noticing.

When the voices in the kitchen move closer to the living room, I’m half a second away from standing and bolting and just...hiding away in a dirty dive hotel. Somewhere no one will ever find me.

But even then, I know I’m not thinking realistically. Not like someone self-sufficient, because the only money I have is Daddy’s credit cards. And the second one of those flags, anyone watching can hunt me down.

See? Useless. Hopeless. Burden.

And frozen in place, too, as Emily steps into the living room and then stops, staring at me uncomfortably. She slowly wraps her arms around herself and looks away and down. I'm not sure who feels more awkward.

Riker’s massive shape fills the doorway, watching, brooding. I glance at him helplessly, but there’s no guidance there.

He’s just this silent, protective papa bear. I know it’s usually the mama bears who protect their cubs, but trust me, looking at Riker right now?

You wouldn’t want to cross his kid. Ever.

Not if you want to keep your head intact.

Oddly, that makes it easier to speak. Because someone who cares that much about his daughter can't be a snarly, scary brute every hour of the day.

He’s human, somewhere, under his stony façade.

It’s not his fault I’ve been thrust into his life, either.

So I make another effort, mustering a smile. “Hi there, Emily –”

“Em,” she corrects softly.

“Em. I can do that.” I take a deep breath. “If you’re Em, then I’m Liv instead of Olivia. Listen, I’m sorry I’m barging in like this. It’s only temporary and it’s just...your dad and I have to play pretend for a little while. Once the coast is clear, then I’ll be out of your hair and –”

“Lady, it’s okay.” Em gives me another look. A shy one where she's watching me from under her lashes, but the look is long and thoughtful. A sort of considerate maturity that makes her seem older than twelve, even if she’s so small she could pass for nine or ten. “I get it, you know,” she says quietly.

She steps closer, then settles down on the couch in the far corner from me and unzips her backpack to start pulling out books and notebooks and a tablet with matter-of-fact movements. “Daddy already told me. There are bad guys after you, and we’re helping keep you safe. It’s okay. You’ll be all right here.”

There’s something humbling about having my situation explained to me so bluntly by a twelve-year-old who actually goes out of her way to reassure me.

God. I almost feel like I’m the child here, and it's overwhelming.

I can’t focus right now. So I watch her without staring, trying not to intrude as she flips open a massive textbook and starts scribbling in a notebook full of something that isn't English.

I guess I'd call it Greek but then it wouldn’t be sarcastic. I’m pretty sure some of those math symbols are actual, honest-to-God Greek.

It’s so alien it looks like hieroglyphics. Pure cuneiform. Last I remembered, twelve-year-olds stuck to math where the only symbol more complex than one through zero was x.

“Is that...algebra?” I venture.

“Calculus,” she responds primly, and I stare. Then immediately look away. I'm sure she’s used to people staring at her for being so smart, probably treating her like some kind of freak, and I don’t want to be yet another bystander making her uncomfortable.

But I don’t know calculus from camembert, so I fish for something else, then land on her backpack and reach out to lightly trace the tip of one of Spock’s pointy ears.

“Old school Nimoy, huh? Not a fan of the new Quinto?”

Her pencil’s scratch stops, and she glances, measuring me, but I can see the spark of interest in her eyes. “They're both pretty cool. But I like Zachary Quinto because he’s hot and Leonard Nimoy because he’ll always be the real deal.”

I grin. “You're right about that. Though I’ve always been a big Uhura fan, too. I dressed up as her for five Halloweens straight when I was your age.”

Emily perks. “Really?” Then she shoots Riker a peevish look. “Daddy won’t let me because he says the skirt and gogo boots are ‘too much.’”

Riker’s brows lower thunderously. “They are too much.”

“But –”

A firm rap at the front door stops us all in our tracks. A waiting stillness settles over the room, a prickling silence as the three of us exchange worried looks before Riker steps forward and toward the door.

“It’s just Landon,” he says. “I’ve been expecting him.”

He pauses in passing and rests his hand lightly on top of Em’s head, his voice, his gaze gentling so much, rough fingers so careful as they tuck her hair back. “Go upstairs, love. We need some privacy.”

Em quickly gathers her things with a nod, stretches up on her toes while Riker bends down to meet her for a kiss on the cheek, then patters upstairs with a last curious glance at me.

Awkward turtle disaster averted. Maybe.

I curl my fingers against my clammy palms. Now, I'm wondering about the door.

I trust that it’s Landon Strauss, but I can’t miss the fact Riker just sent his daughter upstairs – where it's extra safe.

Riker strides to the door, gripping the handle lightly and leaning swiftly to one side to glimpse the other person past the front curtains, moving with a tension and wariness born of practice.

Satisfied, he nods, then he flicks the lock with his thumb and pulls the door open, relaxing slightly as the tall, dark-haired, tattooed man I’ve seen so often on TV walks inside, wary blue eyes cutting around as if he's checking the place for snipers.

Wow. He's not quite my type, but I can see how he’d inspire a writer like Kenna.

Landon’s gaze lands on me, and he offers a brief, distracted smile that I guess is supposed to be reassuring. “Miss Holly,” he says. “Glad you made it safely into Riker’s hands.”

“And living room,” I offer with a lame little laugh.

Neither of them laughs back.

Lame.

“He'll take good care of you,” Landon says.

Riker sinks down in the deep recliner at the other end of the couch, his body moving with powerful ease, slouching into a sort of lazy, careless grace. Landon remains more tense, still standing as he smacks his knuckles into his fist.

“All right, here’s the plan. We’re keeping this off the books even though Enguard is cooperating with the FBI. Just in case Lion and the Pilgrims have deeper connections than we think, technically, you don’t exist anymore, Olivia. No one knows where you are, and for all Milah knows you got scared and ran away.”

I frown. “Will anyone actually believe that?”

“It’ll work. Just long enough to keep them spinning and slow down any search efforts they may have going,” Landon says. “But even though we’re doing this off the books, just in case we have to make sure everything is on the up-and-up as far as legal witness protection standards. We can’t do anything that may invalidate your testimony at a later date.”

“What about my family?” I ask. “Is Milah safe? And my Dad...his wife...”

Charlotte may be Daddy’s fourth wife and no relation to me, but I still don’t want anything to happen to her.

“Milah’s got herself under control.” Then he grimaces, an expression I’m all too familiar with, and for a moment, it almost feels like he’s part of the family. “In this, at least. She learned a lot about personal security after our last incident with Crown Security.”

“The people who are after you,” Riker cuts in quietly, “they go fast and hard. They operate in the shadows. In silence. Targeting your father openly is nearly impossible. Alec Holly's an international household name. Taking out a Fortune Five Hundred presence like him could do them more harm than good.”

There’s something odd in the way Riker speaks, something almost like...resentment?

Maybe even contempt.

I wonder if maybe he hates me more for being a spoiled little rich girl than he does for disrupting his life with an unwanted job. But even though I’m watching him, he’s not looking at me.

I guess this conversation is supposed to make me feel better, but it just leaves me numb with a block of ice in the pit of my stomach. The man who’s supposed to be keeping me safe won’t even acknowledge I’m in the room. Not beyond a few more words about details.

Yet when he speaks again later, although he’s looking at Landon...I feel like his words are for me.

“There’s nothing to worry about with me.” There’s a confidence in his voice that runs far deeper than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.

I can’t help admiring him. He’s a quiet man who doesn’t mean to brag, but that doesn’t mean he’s not certain of his own power – and of the promise he offers when he says, “Nothing's happening. That, I swear on my life. Anyone who wants Olivia Holly will have to go through me.”