Page 33 of The Bodyguard Situation

“You’re not alone in that feeling,” I say. “I get it. Trust me.”

His lips curve into a slight, vulnerable smile. “I know you do.”

We stand quietly for a moment, but his eyes still carry that faint flicker of something unresolved.

“Tell me one thing then,” I say. “Anything.”

He considers this for a long moment, and when I think he won’t answer, his voice comes. “My parents used to bring me here when I was little. Before they passed. That’s why I love it here—it’s the last place that ever felt truly safe for me.”

My chest tightens at his confession. Such a small detail, but it feels enormous, coming from Brody—like a treasured secret he rarely shares. His parents and sister died in a plane crash when he was fourteen, and he moved in with Easton and Weston. He’s been around them for as long as I have.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

His eyes hold mine. “You’re welcome.”

As we lapse back into silence, something shifts subtly between us. I’ve glimpsed a side of Brody he’s protected, and the mystery of him only makes him more compelling.

Maybe we’re both learning that there’s courage in letting someone else in, even just a little bit.

We linger on the porch for another moment, the intensity of the earlier conversation still stretching between us. Finally, Brody nods, offering me a gentle but reserved glance before returning to the pile of wood he was chopping before I interrupted him.

I step back into the cabin, feeling oddly restless. Needing something to distract myself, I decide food would be a good start.

The kitchen is tiny, rustic, but well kept. I open the cabinets, hoping for inspiration, but find rows of canned goods and very little else. I frown slightly, picking up a can of ravioli and some sliced carrots. Cooking has never been my thing, but even I can manage canned goods—at least, I hope so.

I pop open the ravioli, grimacing at the tomato slop, and carefully dump it into a ceramic bowl. The carrots are next, and I scoop them into another smaller bowl. Pausing, I stare at the microwave like it’s a foreign object, fingers hovering over the buttons. This thing looks ancient.

After a minute of frustration, I settle on three minutes, hoping that’s enough for both.

The microwave hums, and I lean against the counter, my mind wandering back to Brody.

When the microwave finally beeps, I pull the bowls out carefully, the ceramic hot against my fingertips. The ravioli looks questionable, but at least it’s steaming. I stir it and take a small bite. It’s not as bad as I expected.

I glance out the kitchen window, watching Brody swing the axe again, muscles rippling under his shirt. Deciding I shouldn’t disturb him too abruptly, I take a few moments to collect my thoughts before stepping outside again.

“Brody,” I call from the porch steps, my voice breaking the silence.

He pauses mid-swing, the axe hanging loosely in his grip. Sweat glistens on his forehead. His eyes are warm but still carefully guarded as he shifts his attention toward me.

“Hungry?”

He hesitates, then gives a small nod, placing the axe against the woodpile and wiping his hands on his jeans as he walks toward me. We step back inside, and I lead him toward the table.

“It’s not exactly gourmet,” I admit sheepishly, gesturing at the food. “But ravioli and carrots were pretty much all I could find. Well, and eggs.”

His lips turn up into an amused half smile as he takes a seat. “Works for me. I should’ve stocked up before bringing you out here. I stopped at a small gas station and grabbed what I could for breakfast.”

“It’s okay.” I slide his bowl across to him, taking the seat opposite. “We’ll definitely need groceries soon though, unless you have a deep love for canned Italian.”

“I don’t,” he says simply, and we share a laugh, easing some of the lingering tension.

A comfortable silence settles between us, but beneath the easy moment, I feel something deeper still simmering. I glance at Brody, his gaze distant and thoughtful as he eats.

“You know,” I start, pushing around a ravioli in my bowl, “being here, out in the quiet, it reminds me a little of my childhood. Before my mom died, we used to spend summers and early fall in Colorado in Cozy Creek. I remember running barefoot through the grass, feeling completely safe and at ease, away from the city. It felt like home too. Now Zane is there living his best life.”

Brody watches me, setting his fork down and giving me his full attention. Encouraged, I continue.

“I lost her when I was eight,” I say, a familiar ache tightening my chest.

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