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"Get away from me, you beer-soaked disaster. I don’t want you to get beer all over my clothes."

"What? That’s hardly a designer dress."

Angelica tugged at the high school sweatshirt. "You sent this to me when you moved here. It’s my favorite hoodie. I’d trade every last designer dress in my closet for this thing.

I snorted. Her dresses might be expensive, but Angelica always found her everyday clothes at consignment stores and thrift stores. She was a relentless bargain hunter.

He stopped, grinned. "Fair point."

"Miss me?"

"Always. What brings you here?"

"A client." She gestured to me. "Kit Lord, meet my brother Jase. The sensible ones are Graham Wallace and Nolan O'Rourke."

"Ms. Lord." Jase extended his hand. His grip was firm, controlled. "What can we do for you?"

Angelica launched into Portuguese, gesturing between us. I caught my name, 'perigo'—danger—and 'proteção'—protection.

"English, please." Graham wrung beer from his shirt. "Some of us took French in high school."

"Kit needs help," Angelica said. "Someone's threatening her career. Digital manipulation sophisticated enough to destroy everything."

"Blackmail?" Nolan asked.

"Character assassination." The words scraped my throat. "They created a video of me saying things I never said. Racist things. If I don't walk away from my next role, they'll release it."

Jase's entire demeanor shifted. The goofball who'd been doing handstands vanished. In his place stood someone who'd hunted terrorists, protected convoys, made life-and-death decisions.

"Conference room. Now." He glanced at the beer puddle. "Graham⁠—"

"Leave it for Roan," Nolan said. "He bet me twenty bucks I couldn't get you to do it."

"Let me grab a dry shirt," Graham headed down the hall.

Angie and I followed Jase around a corner. Each step felt heavier than the last. Once I told them everything, there'd be no taking it back. No pretending this nightmare might disappear on its own.

But looking at the set of Jase's shoulders, the way he moved with purpose and control, something in my chest loosened. These men might act like overgrown frat boys, but underneath was steel.

Maybe Angelica was right. Maybe they could help.

God, I hoped so. Because that video was a ticking bomb, and when it exploded, it would take everything I'd built with it. Hell, who was I kidding? It would take the very essence of who I was with it.