I feel like I’m under house arrest.

And I like this house, but right now I’m ready to burn it down. I don't even care if it often feels like the last thing I have of my father.

It was a thing, with me and Dad. Just us.

Monika never liked ocean fishing, and Mom was this bright and animated thing who was always doing things and not very good at sitting still. Still was for me and Dad, sitting on the front porch of this house and watching the waves for hours, waiting for the tidal turns that would make net fishing in the shallows an adventure of flopping tails and sun-bright scales and just the two of us wrestling the waves, the nets, and each other to bring our haul in.

Just the memory of it makes my throat close with the ache of loss, of nostalgia.

Before it opens again in an exasperated sigh, I stomp through the weathered cabin to find my running shoes.

Jesus.

The last time I felt this trapped was when I got tossed in the brig after punching a commanding officer for groping my ass. But I don’t want to think about groping right now, when I’ll start thinking about how large Gabe’s hands are and how he could easily span just about any part of my body, sinking his fingers in with just enough strength to make me feel –

Down, girl.

Fuck, I need to let off some steam.

That’s why I’m gearing up for a Sunday morning jog.

I need to get out alone, work off some energy, clear my head, escape my dangerously sexy and infuriating jailor. He should be off getting breakfast right now.

Last night, after I ditched him, he parked outside my house and hung around, then texted me his schedule for his nightly patrols.

I don’t know when this man sleeps, considering every time I looked up from my laptop he was either cruising by or parked outside in his truck, sipping from a travel mug and scribbling in that weird little black book of his.

But I’ve got an open window now, so I finish lacing up my shoes and head out at a brisk pace.

The last thing I need is him seeing me bouncing around in tiny gym shorts and a sports bra. Not after he was damn well on top of me with his cock grinding in, painfully close, reminding me just how long it’s been since I had time to find a new friend with benefits.

Damn it all.

Even on my 'escape' I’m thinking about him. My blood runs too hot to trump it up to exertion from the jog. I don’t want to think about him, but I can’t seem to stop.

He’s somehow politely, courteously, gently stomped all over my boundaries.

Now, I’ve got to figure out exactly how to push him back to the other side where he belongs.

Especially since he’s taking up way too much of my time. I haven’t even had a chance to get my car fixed, let alone follow up on my leads about Harmon. That rat has to be squatting somewhere in town, and I’ll turn every rent-by-the-week hotel inside out until I find him and chase him, crawling, out into the light like the cockroach he is.

That is, if I haven’t missed my chance, no thanks to Goliath, and he’s left the Bay Area already.

Most of my contacts work by night, so once I finish my jog I shower off, eat, and settle in to spend the day doing a little more digital legwork.

It’s not that different from the logistics work I did setting up the Duke’s protection strategy, only now I’m scoping out likely places a rat would go to feed. By nightfall I’ve got a good list of places to check out, and I’m just printing a route and a little extra info when the sweep of headlights crosses my windows.

I know, this time, when I look out through the blinds that I’m not looking for the shadow men.

I’m looking for Gabe, and he doesn’t disappoint.

The grumble of his Dodge quiets as he pulls in to park. I expect him to lurk there with his book and his coffee again, but instead he’s looking right at me.

God. He’s got that tortured hangdog look on his face again, like he wants to ask me something but can’t.

You’d think, when I scowl at him, he’d look away. I haven't met many men who can hold my worst evil eye.

But he just keeps right on watching, with a familiarity and intimacy and pleading I can’t stand.

Just like he did last night, when I stood at the window and watched him. I saw the night dwelled in hazel eyes that seemed to know just how desolate and alone I felt.

I let the slats of the blinds slip closed just to block his line of sight, and snatch up my phone, stabbing at the touchscreen.

You can stop fucking staring, I text. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

My fingertips hurt. Pulling back, I rub them gently, waiting for whatever darlin' Sunbeam crap he's about to send back.

I can’t help peeking out again.

There he is, tapping away on his phone, the small thing clenched in his massive paws. He fires back, then shoots an almost mutinous glare at the window just as my phone buzzes.

Do I even dare look? Sadly, I have to.

So, what you're calling fine means only sleeping for three or four hours and working yourself ragged, huh? Funny definition.

I scowl at him, barely looking at my phone as I send, Mind your own business, lughead. Landon isn’t paying you to track how long I sleep. Got it?

And he barely looks at his phone before the retort comes, Landon’s paying me to look after you, Sky. And you seem like you need a whole lot of looking after. If you got something you wanna say about Joannie, I’m all ears.

My throat seizes. I don't know whether to hurl the phone against the nearest wall or scream.

It’s the weirdest real-time argument in the world, communicating through glares and texts, and I’m done with it.

So done. Done with anyone who thinks I need looking after.

I flip him off, every ounce of venom I can muster on my face.

Then I just close the blinds, silence my phone, and crawl into bed.

Fine. I'm fine. And it's whatever.

I’ll sleep.

But there’s no way in hell I rest easy, when my thoughts are bitter, restless, and full of hurting, awful things.

Not when a tiny, deeply buried part of me actually feels guilty for shutting out this huge stranger who cares and knowing I won't let him.

By Monday morning, work is a refuge.

Gabe doesn’t have to follow me into the office, at least. Not when at work, I’m surrounded by the best, most highly trained security personnel on the West Coast.

I hate that I even need that kind of protection, but at least keeping busy is a distraction. I’m tucked into my corner desk reviewing and re-reviewing all the security prep for the Duke of Sealesland’s private jet hangar and the venue for his charity talk when the door swings open.

I'm just glad his cousin, King Silas, won't be tagging along. The dirty tabloid prince turned charismatic ruler, adoring husband, and doting father of the world's favorite royal baby would have to involve more firms than just ours, plus a full foreign security detail.

I glance up as Landon comes striding in. He’s not even supposed to be here; he’s leading the convoy route prep team. I frown, coming alert in my chair.

“Boss?” I ask. “What’s up?”

He blinks as if he’d forgotten I’d be there, then laughs. “Stand down, Pixie. I just forgot the damn car adapter for the frequency scanner.” He crosses to one of the shared desks and pulls the drawer open, rummaging inside. “How’re things going with Gabe?”

I wince. I want to tell him things aren’t going at all.

I want to flip him off for sticking me with that oversized, painfully attractive asshole.

I want to tell him Gabe is weird and too nice to me and all kinds of trouble that I don’t need right now.

But I’m mad enough at both of them to be an asshole right now, and it’s the asshole in me that shrugs diffidently and offers a catty little smile. “Things are fine. We’ve been having some...interesting times together. He’s been really interested in showing me some new grappling techniques.”

Landon’s head jerks up sharply. His gaze goes flat, and he eyes me. “What do you mean ‘grappling techniques?’”

I’m playing with fire, I know.

But maybe if Landon and Gabe are busy yelling at each other and sorting things out, it’ll keep Gabe away from me. It'll keep him preoccupied so I can find Joannie's kidnapper.

So, of course, I reply, “Let’s just say it took him less than thirty seconds to get me pinned underneath him.”

Landon sets his jaw grimly. “Really.”

I arch both brows mildly. “What? Something wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Landon grinds out.

Then he turns and walks right out, stiff-legged and fists clenched.

I smirk to myself and swivel my chair back to my computer screen.

I should be pleased. Gabe is about to get the reaming he deserves.

So, why do I just feel flat out uncomfortable, awkward, and bizarrely guilty as hell?

Guiltier, I should say. I still haven't gotten over that weirdness I felt the other night, shutting him out.

The door rattling shut brings me out of it.

It’s just me in the office, and Riker – Riker over at his station, tapping away on the keyboard, seeming to mind his own business. But he glances back at me, green eyes thoughtful, framed by the weathered lines around them.

There’s an assessment in them that makes me almost uncomfortable, like he’s my Dad and he knows exactly what I just did and maybe he’s disappointed in me, too.

But all he says, after a quiet moment, is, “Was that really necessary?”

I wince. “No, but also...yes.”

He smiles faintly. There're so many shadows around his eyes, his mouth, haunted things.

I don’t know a lot about him. Lots of the higher ranking people around here have been with Landon from the start, or they're his old Army buddies.

I’ve only been here a few years, coming in green right out of the Navy when Landon was looking for ex-military on the hunt for a job. I had no idea answering a job ad would plunk me into a company where I felt like the little stepsister all the time.

It wasn’t that they weren’t kind to me. They treated me like family from the get-go, but it was just that they all actually were family in the military sense, and knew each other in ways so easy it was like they spoke a language I was still trying to learn.

So, yeah, maybe I missed the little things about them. Maybe sometimes I felt like the most awkward dork, everybody's little sister, trying to navigate my way around these hardened men with their egos and demons and crazy will to build a security firm from the ground up.

All I know about Riker is that he's a widower. And his daughter's so whip smart, she probably put those silver streaks in his hair just by being precocious. We’d never talked one-on-one much, even with both of us tending to pull long hours until we were the last ones at the office.

He’s still studying me now, though, and finally he chuckles. “Just don’t let it go too far. You don’t have to look at me like that, Sky. I’m not judging. Sometimes it’s fun to pull old Landon’s tail.”

My shoulders come down from around my ears, but I still feel like a brat.

“Yeah,” I answer weakly. “Guess I could use a little fun.”

His gaze softens. “Still no news, then?”

Joannie, he means. Everybody in the office knows it, of course, but they respect my silence. Usually.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m trying, though. I can’t quit.”

“You’ll find her,” Riker assures me with that grave, calm, solemn growl that makes everything he says sound like the truth.

It's the kind of voice that makes even a grown woman feel like a little girl who just needs her father to say things will be okay and mean it. “I fully believe it,” he says again.

I say nothing, just nod, as I swivel my chair back to my workstation.

Riker's calm, reassuring confidence helps. It still means something to know so many people believe in me.

I just wish I had the same faith in myself.