Page 12 of Snowed in with the Bodyguard

I nod, a chill running down my spine. I move away and sit on the worn, beige wraparound sofa that takes up most of the living room, wrapping my arms around myself as I try to absorb everything that’s happened in the past few hours. It’s like a twisted dream. We’ve been chased, shot at, my family’s mansion went up in flames, and we fled in a frantic car chase that’s left us stranded in the middle of nowhere, walking through a freezing forest until we reached his cabin.

And let’s not forget that I kissed him. And he kissed me back. Proving that I’m not alone in this attraction, that there’s something between us.

I watch Jack as he paces the room, his steps measured but full of an underlying tension. He looks like a lion, trapped but always ready to strike, his movements filled with a barely restrained power. Every time he turns, my nerves jump. I can’t help but be drawn to him—the man who’s saved me over and over already, without hesitation, with a fierceness I can’t ignore.

I grew up around charmers—men who flash roguish smiles, dress in perfectly tailored suits, and wield smooth words like weapons. Jack is the opposite: his hair is short, his body is built like a fortress, and his wardrobe probably hasn’t seen so much as a glimmer of Gucci or Armani. He wears black pants and basic black shirts, the kind you find in department stores, not luxury boutiques.

He's a man who doesn’t care about appearances, doesn’t care about charm. But here I am, unable to pull my gaze from him, wondering why every fiber of my being wants nothing more than to strip away that cable-knit sweater he’s now wearing and let my hands roam over the muscles hiding beneath.

Is it the adrenaline? The fear coursing through me, heightening every emotion and every nerve ending? Or is it something deeper—a need to experience something real, something raw, in the midst of all this chaos? Maybe it’s the forbidden thrill that comes with proximity to danger or that I don’t want to die with regrets. No matter the reason, I can’t deny the desire simmering beneath my skin.

Jack’s pacing slows, his gaze focused, intent, as he surveys the room one last time. I can’t help but notice how the dim light accentuates the hard angles of his face and the tension that radiates from him. Something about him—something magnetic—pulls me in despite every voice in my head warning me to keep my distance.

“Do you have a blanket?” I ask Jack. The heater provides some warmth, but it’s not exactly toasty in here.

“Closet in the bedroom,” he says, tipping his head toward the small hallway.

I find the bedroom, its centerpiece a large king-sized bed draped in a thick, inviting duvet. My mind wanders, unbidden, to thoughts I probably shouldn’t entertain. What would it take to get Jack in that bed with me, wrapped in the warmth of that duvet, his body pressed against mine? The thought sends a rush of heat through me, clashing against the cold permeating the room.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I rummage through the closet until I find a soft, fluffy blanket tucked away on a high shelf. Hugging it close, I savor the small comfort as warmth seeps into my skin, a fragile barrier against the fear lingering in the back of my mind.

When I return to the living room, Jack is still pacing, his gaze distant as if he’s fighting some battle I can’t see. His expression is tight, and I realize he’s as affected by everything as I am. He may not show it, but he carries his own burdens, his own fears.

“Jack,” I call out softly, breaking the silence.

He turns to me, his gaze meeting mine with a weariness I didn’t notice before. His eyes, usually hard and guarded, hold a flicker of vulnerability. “Yeah?” he asks, exhaustion evident in his tone.

“I found the blanket,” I say, offering it to him. “You should sit down. Rest for a bit. You’ve been on edge for hours.”

He hesitates, glancing between me and the blanket as though debating whether to accept my gesture. “I think we both know how dangerous that would be.”

I tip my chin. “Why?”

“You know why, Holly,” he growls, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

He’s right. I do. But right now, I need his heat, the comfort of his warm body and his strength.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

His silver-gray gaze softens. “Would you believe me if I said I’m scared too?”

My eyes widen. “You? But this is your job. You’re so contained. So… in control. You always know what to do, what to say. I've never seen you hesitate.”

A shadow of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the thing about control, Holly—it’s a mask. And right now”—his gaze falls to my mouth again—“it’s slipping.”

The weight of his confession hangs heavy between us, and my heart aches at the vulnerability he’s allowing me to see.

“You don’t have to wear it around me,” I say softly, stepping closer. “Not here. Not now.”

The tension in his jaw relaxes, and he looks at me like I’m the only thing anchoring him in this chaotic storm.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp. “You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

“Maybe I do,” I counter, my fingers tightening around the blanket as I dare to meet his gaze. “And maybe I’m okay with it.”

Finally, with an abrupt nod, he relents, sinking onto the sofa. I join him, draping the blanket over us. The warmth is a welcome relief, a brief reprieve from the chill.

In the quiet that follows, I steal glances at him, studying the lines etched into his face, the faint shadows under his eyes. The weight of everything he carries is clear, and a surge of something unexpected envelops me—compassion. And admiration.

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