Page 39

Sutton needed a battle plan. She had typed those exact words and was bracing for a psychological siege. Nash Calloway operated on fear and meticulous control. He used exhaustion and starvation tactics to keep her compliant. She had described his punishing diets and the absurd rules about sodium intake.

A bright neon sign glowed through the worsening rain. A fast-food drive-thru sign stood tall above the swaying trees. I pressed my heavy boot against the brake pedal and swerved the truck into the turning lane, ignoring the indignant, blaring horn from a passing minivan. I pulled into the empty drive-thru lane. It was an absurd detour. I was racing a tropical storm and a ruthless media circus, stopping my vehicle for junk food. But two nights ago, while we prepared dinner, Sutton had described curly fries with wistful reverence. Nash forbade them. Nash forbade anything that brought her simple, uncomplicated joy.

This stop was not just food. It was a tactical strike against her ex-husband’s conditioning. The metal speaker box crackled through the howling wind. "Order when ready."

"Two large orders of curly fries," I called out over the loud rumble of the diesel engine. "And a chocolate milkshake. Make it extra thick."

"You got it. Pull around."

I steered forward and handed cash to a teenager at the window. He handed back a warm, grease-stained paper bag and a large plastic cup. The smell of seasoned salt and fried potatoes filled the cab instantly, cutting straight through the scent of damp fabric and rain. I set the bag on the passenger seat, placed the milkshake in the cup holder, and pulled back onto the wet asphalt.

I guided the truck down the dead-end gravel road leading to my property. The dense canopy of ancient trees blocked out the remaining meager daylight. The cottage glowed in the distance. Warm, yellow light spilled from the narrow cracks in the storm shutters I had secured earlier. The small house stood firm against the elements.

I parked the truck at a sharp angle near the bottom of the wooden stairs to block the worst of the wind from the porch and killed the engine. I grabbed my canvas go-bag from the floorboard and snatched the warm paper bag from the passenger seat.

After pushing the heavy door open, I stepped into the deluge. Rain fell in violent, horizontal sheets. The cold water stung my face and soaked my shirt before my boots even hit the gravel driveway. I took the wooden porch steps two at a time. I fumbled with my keys in the dark, but the front door swung inward before I could insert the metal into the lock.

“You made it!" Sutton shouted, her voice competing with the noise outside.

I stepped over the threshold and pushed the heavy wooden door shut using my shoulder. The sudden quiet inside the cottage was stark. I threw the deadbolt, and the lock engaged with a heavy metallic click. I slid the brass chain into the metal track before turning back to face her with water dripping from my hair. She looked unbelievably gorgeous, at total odds with the storm outside.

I wiped the rain from my eyes, powerless to keep them from traveling down, then up her body. "Where did you get the clothes?”

A fragile smile broke through her fear. "Brenna stopped by earlier. She brought me a care package."

Feeling like an asshole, heat flared in my face. I dumped her in this cottage with nothing but my old gym shorts and industrial shower gel, expecting her to just survive. "Shit, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I should’ve thought of that."

"You had other things on your mind."

"Brenna is the sensitive one in the family," I admitted. "Thank God she stepped up."

I moved past her into the kitchen and set the grease-stained paper bag on the granite island counter. The smell of the seasoned fries drifted immediately into the room. I placed the milkshake next to the bag before turning to meet her gaze. Her blue eyes searched my face for panic, hesitation, or regret. I offered none. I stood tall, planting my boots firmly on the floor and letting her see the unyielding resolve in my posture.

"We’re locked down. Nobody comes in. Nobody goes out." I pointed a finger at the paper bag. "Eat some fries, Sutton. Then we plan."

She stared at the bag, blinking rapidly. The tight, terrified lines around her mouth relaxed. A small, brilliant smile broke across her face, wiping away the fear of the impending media siege. "You got fries? In the middle of a tropical storm warning?"

"Priorities," I said. "Not just fries—curly fries. You mentioned you missed them, and Nash isn’t here to count the sodium."

She padded to the counter and placed her hand flat against the warm paper bag. She clutched the food as if it were a shield against the incoming darkness. "I can’t believe you did this.”

I shifted my weight, now afraid I looked like a fool. “They’re only fries. No big deal.”

She grinned and picked up the bag. “It’s a very big deal. Thank you. And you are completely ridiculous, Ben Coleridge."

"Not the first time I’ve been called that." Smiling, I pulled the damp T-shirt away from my chest. "I need dry clothes. Open the bag. I will be back in two minutes."

I walked down the short hallway to my bedroom, stripped off the wet clothes, and tossed them into the plastic hamper. I pulled on a pair of dry, dark sweatpants and a clean white T-shirt. When I returned to the living room, Sutton had moved to the gray couch. She sat with her legs crossed underneath her, a cardboard carton of fries resting on her lap. She took a bite and closed her eyes in sheer appreciation. The sight of her finding comfort in the middle of a disaster sent a fierce, protective surge through my veins.

I sat down on the opposite end of the couch and grabbed the second carton. The storm outside battered the metal shutters with escalating violence. The wind shrieked around the corners of the roof.

"Mindy texted the burner phone." Sutton chewed and swallowed, her voice steadying. "TMZ people are calling every hotel and resort south of Marathon."

"Well, they won’t find you at a hotel." I ate a fry, matching her calm demeanor. "This road is private, and I shut the gate at the highway."

"They use drones," she warned. She pointed a fry at the ceiling. "If anyone saw the ambulance that night, or the tow truck pulling the rental car out of the swamp, they’ll put the pieces together."

"Then we control the pieces. We don’t wait for them to knock on the door. We contact a lawyer as soon as we can, a local attorney with no ties to the music industry or your label. We draft a statement and take the offensive. Brenna’s husband Hunter is an expert in security. We’ll get his input on all this too."