Page 33 of Untamed Hunter Daddy

Ryker’s hand covers mine. They’re warm and steady and I panic.

“Breathe,” he says, conversational, eyes on the menu. “He can’t see you from there. The glass is tinted. The hat’s working. You’re a woman having lunch with her boyfriend. That’s all you are right now.”

Boyfriend. The word is so normal it almost makes me laugh, and the almost-laugh breaks the panic’s grip. My breathing steadies. My hands stop shaking under his palm.

Tyler walks inside. Through the glass I watch him raise a hand to someone behind the bar, then slide into a booth near the front with two other men. Handshakes. Easy. Familiar.

“Two males at the booth,” Ryker says, lips barely moving. “White, mid-thirties. One heavy-set with a buzz cut in a Ridge Auto shirt. One leaner, better dressed. Collared shirt, clean hands. Not a mechanic. Watch his eyes.”

I watch. The lean man sits with his back to the wall. His eyes move the way every law enforcement officer I’ve met moves them, except this scan isn’t protective. It’s acquisitive. He’s counting the room.

“That man’s in the business,” I say. “He’s not eating. He’s shopping.”

Ryker’s hand tightens on mine once.

The food arrives. I force myself to eat. A woman who orders and doesn’t touch her plate draws attention.

That’s when I see the girl.

She comes out of the kitchen carrying a tray of sauces. Maybe twenty. Brown hair in a braid. Open face. Trusting. Eager. Wearing the same pig-logo cap and apron as our waitress. She’s nobody. But at the same time she’s everyone.

She’s me.

Tyler calls her over. She approaches with the service smile I used to wear. He says something and she laughs, tilting her head in the exact angle that exposes the throat and softens the jaw. The unconscious body language of trust.

He touches her arm. It’s light and brief. Fingertips on her forearm. The kind of contact too small to object to. I watched him do the same thing to me for three weeks before it escalated. Light touch. Sustained touch. Hand on the small of the back. Arm around the shoulders. Each step so small that by the time the door locks you’ve already agreed to everything that came before it.

She laughs again, and writes something on her order pad. Tyler watches her walk away with the expression of a man watching an investment grow.

I shut out the world because the rage is so total that if I don’t I’m going to walk over there and put my hands around his throat.

“Her name tag says Lacey,” Ryker says quietly. “I see it. We’re going to get her out. But not today. Today’s observation. Today we’re building the case. If we move too soon he disappears and takes the network with him and Lacey and every woman after her has no one coming for them.”

I know he’s right. I still want to move.

“I want to go,” I say. “I’ve seen enough.”

He signals for the check, pays cash, and we stand. Hat low. Sunglasses on. We move toward the truck. Four more steps and we’re off the deck. Three more and we’re at the door.

“Zoe?”

The voice comes from behind me. Young. Female. Surprised.

I freeze. Ryker’s hand finds my elbow. Keep moving.

“Zoe Parker? Oh my God, is that you?”

Another waitress. She’s got a ponytail and kind eyes. She’s followed us into the lot, face bright with recognition.

“I went to high school with Jenny Corbett, she worked at the Timber Creek Diner with you! She said you just disappeared one day. Are you okay? You look so different with the⁠—”

“Wrong person,” Ryker says. He’s between us now, body angled to block her view. Friendly. Firm. Ending the conversation. “She gets that a lot. Have a good day.”

He opens the truck door. I’m inside. He’s in the driver’s seat and the engine is running in under four seconds. The waitress is still standing there, her expression shifting from excitement to confusion.

Ryker pulls out at exactly the speed limit. Eyes on the mirrors. I turn and look through the rear window.

Tyler is standing on the deck.