My eyes glance back at Cole. Former military. It is suddenly obvious in a way it wasn’t this morning. The way he stands and seems on-guard, always scanning. Calm sits on him like discipline, not personality.
“You were fishing,” I say.
“I was.”
“And now you’re…” I gesture vaguely because my brain refuses to supply the right word.
“Available,” he says.
Sheriff Vaughn clears his throat, and I realize the room has gone still around us in a way that makes my face warm.
Sloane, bless him, continues as if nothing happened. “If you agree, Cole stays close. He assesses vulnerabilities, coordinates with us, and remains with you when you leave the property.”
“Stays close, how close?” I ask.
Cole answers before anyone else can. “Within reach when we’re in public. Within hearing distance when we’re not.”
That is a very specific answer. My pulse notices.
“So, not hovering.”
“I don’t hover.”
Sloane gives him a look. He ignores it.
I fold my arms tightly, then immediately unfold them because I do not want to look defensive. “And tonight?”
“Tonight,” Cole says, “I stay here.”
“With me?”
His expression does not change, but something in his eyes does. “Near you.”
“That distinction is doing a lot of work.”
“It can do more if you need it to.”
I stare at him. He holds my gaze without a trace of apology, but there is no leer in it, no assumption, no casual male satisfaction at making me flustered. Just steadiness. Control. A promise wrapped in restraint.
Sloane cuts in smoothly. “There are other options. We can place a guard outside, increase patrols, or relocate you to another property. But given the unknown number, the stolen knife, the earlier incident under the house, and the fact that your private number is now compromised, Cole inside the cottage is the safest immediate choice.”
Inside the cottage. With the man from the beach. The man who watched me pick up shells and somehow noticed fear I was trying very hard to hide. A laugh rises in me, but it dies before reaching my mouth.
“This is insane.”
“No,” Sloane says. “It’s inconvenient. There’s a difference.”
Sheriff Vaughn’s voice softens. “You’re still in control here, Ms. Stone. We’re making recommendations. You decide.”
But control is a strange thing when every option exists because someone else has already taken too much of it away. I look at the darkened porch curtains, then the phone face down on the counter, then Cole.
He says nothing, and I appreciate his hands-off style. He doesn’t push, just waits.
“What if I say no?” I ask him.
“Then I sit in my truck outside until Sloane tells me to stop or you call someone else.”
My eyebrows lift. “That sounds like not taking no for an answer.”
