Page 8 of Christmas in Quincy (The Edens 0.50)

Without Ray’s business, my own would suffer. So for the past three months, a member of my team had watched her from afar. It had only been a matter of time before she’d spotted us or caught on to her father’s deception, though I’d expected it to happen in California, not Montana.

It was going to be a cluster when we got home. If we got home.

“You have thirty seconds to start packing,” I said. “Either you do it yourself, or I’ll do it for you.”

“I hate you.” Her lip curled.

A knock at the door interrupted her snarl.

“Pack.” I brushed past her, desperate for some outside air, and flung the door open. A kid, probably eighteen, greeted me with a smile. It dropped when he met my icy glare.

“Oh, uh . . . sorry.” His eyes darted to a slip of paper on the tray he was carrying. “I’m looking for a Ms. Hillcrest. This says room four-ten.”

“I’m here.” Cleo appeared at my side, jabbing me in the ribs with her elbow, muttering, “Move.”

I swallowed a grunt. Damn, she had sharp elbows.

“Can you send up another bottle?” Cleo asked the kid, taking the ice bucket and champagne off the tray. “I’m going to need two.”

“And another glass, ma’am?”

“No.” She snatched the single flute he’d brought and shot me a glare. “He’s leaving.”

The kid’s gaze lifted to my face and I nodded at the hallway for him to get lost.

He followed orders, even the nonverbal kind, much better than the stubborn woman who marched back inside the room.

“I’m not leaving,” she declared, setting the champagne on the closest nightstand. “I came here for a vacation and to celebrate Christmas on my own terms. I’m not spending another inane, material, superficial holiday with my family.”

Cleo hauled the green bottle from the bucket, peeling off the foil and yanking away the muselet. Then she pressed her thumbs against the cork, bracing for the pop. Except the cork didn’t budge. Her cheeks reddened and her lips pursed as she gripped the bottle in one hand and attempted to shimmy and wiggle out the cork with the other. Still, it didn’t budge.

I growled and stepped close, ripping the bottle from her hands.

“Hey. Give that back.” She swiped for it, but I spun and blocked her with my shoulder.

With a twist and a tug, the cork popped free. “Here.”

She took the bottle back and stomped—as well as a person could stomp in a pair of fluffy white slippers—to the flute, pouring it until the fizz reached the brim. “My father promised me there’d be no more security. He promised.”

“That’s between the two of you.”

She gulped the entire glass of champagne and immediately refilled it. “How long? Tell me the truth. How long have you been following me?”

Ray had asked me not to tell Cleo about our agreement. But the look in her eyes, the desperation for someone to be honest with her, broke my resolve. “We never stopped.”

Her shoulders fell.

I hated being the one to put the sad look on her face. Just like I hated being the one to erase her smiles. But I was on the clock here and things would be easier once she was home and far, far away from me.

This entire trip was so out of character for her. Cleo loved routine more than any person I knew. It made it ridiculously easy to protect her. Up at four. To the bakery by five. Work until close, then she drove home, lights out by eight.

Ray hadn’t believed me when I’d called him this morning and told him that his daughter had just boarded a plane, final destination Montana.

He’d cussed me up one side and down the other, but we hadn’t been monitoring her credit cards. He’d told us to stop three months ago, wanting to give her at least that much autonomy. So much for her independence. As of today, every movement Cleo made, every purchase, was to be tracked by my team. Anything suspicious was to be reported to him immediately.

Like a trip to Montana for Christmas.