Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“So, Asher,” Wade’s voice cuts through my thoughts again, “what is it that you do, exactly?”
I look at him, giving him the same blank stare I used on people back in my military days. “I’m in private security.”
His smirk falters for a split second, and I get a weird sense of satisfaction from it. “Private security, huh? I imagine you’re very good at it.”
“I do all right,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “Especially when it comes to protecting what matters.”
Wade’s eyes narrow just enough for me to notice, but before he can reply, Charlotte leans in and rests her hand on my arm. “Asher’s amazing,” she says, her voice a little too sugary. “I couldn’t imagine feeling safer with anyone else.”
I almost laugh at how perfect her timing is. She’s really leaning into this whole act, and for a second, I almost forget we’re pretending. Almost.
Dinner wraps up, and as we all start standing to leave, I can feel Wade watching us, his gaze like a weight on my back. I help Charlotte up from her chair, keeping my hand on the small of her back, and she lets out a quiet breath of relief.
As we walk away from the table, heading back toward the suite, Charlotte lets out a soft groan. “This is going to be a long week.”
“You did great,” I say, shooting her a sideways glance.
“Oh, Asher,” Charlotte’s grandmother calls after us.
I spin around, plastering on a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’d like to speak to you,” she puckers her lips, eyeing everyone at the table before focusing back on me, “alone.”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
The sitting room off the Lane lobby is staged to look casual—over-stuffed club chairs, floral chintz that hasn’t been fashionable in decades, an antique escritoire parked under a portrait of someone’s stern Victorian ancestor. But nothing here is accidental. Every piece shouts old-money permanence, a reminder that outsiders tread on generational turf.
Charlotte’s grandmother—Margaret Lane to society pages, “Nana Peg” to the family—waits by the window, spine ramrod straight, teacup balanced in one hand like a judge’s gavel. I close the door behind me, note the solid brass bolt (good) and the single ground-floor sash window (escape route if conversation goes nuclear). No immediate threats, only a ninety-pound matriarch with a gaze that could blister paint.
“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Hawke,” she says, voice warm enough to pass for hospitable. I catch the steel beneath it. She gestures to a chair opposite. “Please, sit.”
I take the seat she offers, and set my back to the wall, sight line on the door. Habit. Hands folded, posture open. Let her read what she wants.
She studies me in silence for a long breath, blue eyes sharp as a scalpel. “You handled yourself well at dinner—good manners, attentive to Charlotte.” She sets her cup in its saucer with surgical precision. “But courtship isn’t an evening performance. It’s a lifetime.”
“Agreed,” I say evenly.
She nods as though that was the only acceptable answer. “Let’s speak plainly. My granddaughter possesses a sizable trust, but money attracts parasites. I’ve seen fortunes bled dry by charming men with perfect smiles.” Her gaze flicks to my mouth—assessment logged. “What is your financial picture, Mr. Hawke?”
Direct assault—she doesn’t waste ammo. I keep my expression neutral. “Comfortably solvent. I own a mortgage-free property outside Denver and maintain diversified investments. No debt beyond a single business line of credit for growth capital.”
Her eyebrow arcs. “Growth of what, precisely?”
“Private security firm. Boutique, high-net-worth clients. Charlotte is familiar with my background.”
“Background that involves risk,” she counters. “Bodyguards earn danger money but seldom build empires.”
“True.” I let the silence hang a moment. “But I’m not marrying Charlotte to leverage her assets. I’m here because I value her—values, intelligence, every facet. Finances are secondary.”
That lands poorly. A tight line forms around her mouth. “Love, Mr. Hawke, doesn’t pay property taxes or boardroom coups.”
“No, ma’am,” I concede. “It does, however, keep you from selling your soul for a bigger yacht.”
She inhales—a slow, measured breath—and I know I’ve triggered her ledger-driven worldview. I continue before she can fire back. “My role is to stand between Charlotte and whatever threat appears—physical, emotional, corporate. I’ve done it for heads of state. Doing it for someone I love feels—” I shrug once. “Natural.”
“Love,” she repeats, tasting the word like it’s unripe fruit. “You’ve known her, what, a handful of weeks?”
“Long enough to recognize integrity.” My gaze holds hers. I soften my tone but not conviction. “I respect your caution. Charlotte’s safety matters more to me than my own. Money can’t buy that.”
Silence stretches, thick as library dust. Wind rattles the sash; foyer voices drift faintly beyond the door. I let the quiet work, an interrogation tool in reverse—show composure, invite her next move.
Finally she leans back, fingers drumming porcelain. “Suppose Charlotte’s trust was revoked tomorrow. Would you still marry her?”