Page 23 of A Bride for the Bodyguard

She grins, releasing my hands to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “Now, let’s talk about what flavors we’ll feature on opening day, shall we?”

“Absolutely,” I agree, the warmth of her support bolstering my resolve as I begin to share my vision with renewed vigor.

Inside, Melanie’s advice swirls around like leaves caught in an autumn breeze—each one a whisper telling me to trust, to leap, to believe. And with each step we take away from the shop, her encouragement wraps around me like a cashmere scarf, soft and warm against the chill of my fears.

Hours later, I hoist myself into bed next to Jack, the events of the day weighing heavily on my eyelids.

“Melanie all settled?” Jack asks as I slip underneath the covers beside him.

“Yep,” I respond, stifling a yawn. “She’s camped out in the guest room, chatting away with her boyfriend.”

A soft chuckle escapes him as he sets down his phone on the bedside table and rolls over to face me, pulling me closer into his embrace. His warmth seeps into me, slowing my racing thoughts.

“Did you two have fun?” He asks.

I pause for a moment before answering, choosing my words carefully. “It was fine,” I assure him lightly. But there’s an unspoken weight to my words that even I can’t ignore. “Just...a lot of thinking going on.”

Jack’s thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. “About the shop?”

“About everything.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “She told me to follow my heart. To trust in... us.”

“Smart woman, your sister.” There’s a glimmer of something tender in his gaze, something that makes my chest expand with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

The words settle over me and I allow myself to lean into the warmth of hope kindling within—hope for a future that’s starting to look a lot less like convenience and a lot more like something real.

Chapter Nine

JACK

I lean against the cool granite of the kitchen counter, my coffee mug cradled in my hands.

My wife, meanwhile, is a whirlwind of motion before the oven, her apron dusted with flour and stray streaks of white across her cheeks like war paint.

“Try this one.” Marlie holds out a delicate macaroon with an expectant gleam in her eye. It’s a pastel green, probably her signature pistachio flavor.

“Looks too good to eat,” I tease, but I take it from her, biting down.

The shell cracks perfectly, giving way to a rich, buttery filling that has me closing my eyes for just a moment longer than necessary.

“God, Marlie.” I swallow, savoring the taste. “You’re going to make a killing with these.”

She beams at me, pride lighting up her gorgeous eyes. “You really think so?”

“I know so. Your macaroons are fucking delicious.”

Marlie’s smile gets even wider. “Thanks, Jack. That means a lot.”

The sun has barely peeked over the horizon, and it’s already shaping up to be a whirlwind of a day.

Tomorrow is our wedding reception, and Marlie’s been in the kitchen since dawn, her hands moving in a flurry as she churns out batch after batch of macaroons.

In an attempt to distract herself from the mounting pressure of our impending nuptials, she’s turned to what she knows best—baking.

I lean against the kitchen doorway, watching her with an admiration that surprises me. She’s got this fierce determination etched on her face, her brows furrowed in concentration as she meticulously pipes out each macaroon shell.

The sight of it impresses me more than I care to admit.

Marlie returns to her workstation, wiping her hands on a towel as she talks me through the various flavors lined up in neat rows.

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