Page 27 of Snowed in with the Bodyguard

“Hey.” I tilt her chin up slightly, forcing her to meet my gaze. “You’re not a burden. You’re… everything.”

The words come out rough, unpolished, but they’re true. I clear my throat, wondering if I’ve revealed too much too soon. “You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” she says, though her voice lacks the conviction to back it up. “You need to rest too. You can’t stay on high alert forever.”

“I’ll rest in a bit.”

She snuggles into the crook of my neck, her lips twitching into a faint smile, her fingers curled loosely around mine. “Stubborn,” she mutters.

“Takes one to know one,” I shoot back.

That earns me a quiet laugh. It’s a good sound after the emotional upheaval of her phone conversation with her father.

Holly’s breath evens out, and her body melts into mine as she falls asleep again. I sit back, cradling her against my chest as the fire dies down to embers. The weight of her in my arms and her steady breathing ground me. It’s enough to remind me of what I’m fighting for. Of what I’ll protect at all costs.

Her. Always her.

She’s burrowed herself into a part of me I didn’t even know existed. For years, I’ve been a machine. A protector. A man built for survival, not connection. Yet here she is, turning everything I thought I knew upside down.

I glance at her, her face relaxed in sleep, her brow no longer furrowed with worry. My chest tightens, not with fear or anxiety, but with something deeper. Something I’ve avoided for so long that I almost don’t recognize it.

I love her.

The realization lands like a sucker punch, but instead of knocking the wind out of me, it roots me deeply. I love Holly. Not just her beauty, though that’s undeniable, but her strength, her vulnerability, the way she fights to hold on to hope even when the world has given her every reason to let go.

And it terrifies me. Because loving her means risking everything. It means giving her the power to break me, to leave me hollow. But it also means protecting her with every ounce of strength I have, not because it’s my job, but because I can’t imagine a world without her in it.

I brush a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her. Her lips part slightly, and she murmurs something unintelligible, snuggling closer. My heart aches with a tenderness I didn’t think I was capable of.

This is more than a mission. More than duty. Holly isn’t simply someone I’ve been hired to protect—she’s my entire world.

She stirs slightly, her hand curling against my chest, and I press a kiss to her temple. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I love her. And I’ll fight to give her the life she deserves—the safety, the freedom, the peace. Because she’s worth everything.

Chapter 11

Holly

I glare down at the box I’ve just dug out of the trash as if my frustration alone can change how infuriating it is. Who knew making a casserole from a box could be this difficult? I forgot how long to set the timer, which led me to rummage through the bin for the instructions in case I’d missed anything else. At home, I never had to cook. Holidays meant catered feasts, glittering dinner parties, and expertly set tables. But now, standing in this simple, cozy cabin, making a meal for Jack, I experience a sense of accomplishment.

It’s Christmas Eve. A Christmas tree Jack chopped down our second day here stands in the corner of the living room, the tinsel and lights he found in a storage closet twinkling merrily, a spark of hope in the darkness.

We’ve been here for a week. Seven days of lying low, hiding in this safe house nestled deep in the mountains. Seven days of quiet punctuated by moments of sharp awareness, as if we’re both waiting for the other shoe to drop. And despite the tension, or maybe because of it, I’ve come to love this little bubble we’ve created.

My gaze drifts around the cabin as I take in its charm. It’s a simple structure built more for function than style. The front holds the kitchen and living room, made cozy by the fireplace’s heat. A short hallway leads to the bathroom and two bedrooms, both with king-sized beds neatly made with patchwork quilts and thick blankets. The dressers hold a few clothes for us, nothing fancy, just practical items, likely from a basic department store.

The contrast is stark. A week ago, my closet was full of designer labels, but I’m so much happier now, without the weight of luxury and expectation, than I ever was surrounded by excess. Being here with Jack fills me with a kind of peace I’ve never known.

My lips curve into a soft smile as I glance over at him. He’s sprawled on the sofa, one arm draped over his head, the other resting across his chest. His face is relaxed, illuminated by the glow of the fire. It’s rare to see him this at ease. Even in sleep, there’s usually a tightness to his jaw, a readiness in his posture. But now, he looks peaceful, and it stirs something warm and protective inside me.

Jack has refused to let me do anything that might strain my injury, so I’ve spent most of my time on the sofa while Jack played nursemaid. My thigh twinges faintly at the thought, but it’s nothing compared to what it was when we first arrived. The pain has lessened, and the wound itself is closing nicely. Still, Jack insists on inspecting it daily, changing the bandages with a care that’s equal parts tender and maddening.

Because while his hands are gentle when tending to my injury, they’re infuriatingly distant the rest of the time. He’s even insisted we sleep in separate rooms so he doesn’t accidentally jostle me in his sleep.

I get it. I do. He’s worried about hurting me. But after everything we’ve been through, the physical distance is unbearable. Every lingering glance, every accidental brush of his hand, sends a current of frustration zipping through me, a frustration he doesn’t seem to share—or at least pretends not to.

The problem is, I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to tiptoe around each other, pretending this fire between us doesn’t exist. I want him desperately, and I’ve run out of patience.

Time to take matters into my own hands, so to speak.

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