Page 39 of The Bodyguard Situation

Harper’s awake, her slender frame illuminated by the soft morning light. She rummages through the cupboards, and I watch her carefully. She looks softer like this, absolutely fucking gorgeous in the muted glow of morning.

I move onto the porch and press my code into the door lock, and it clicks open.

“There you are!” she says, smiling, happy as fuck to see me. It’s undeniable.

“I always keep my promises to you,” I say, placing the groceries and keys on the counter.

She looks at me with wide eyes, her hair a mess from sleep. Her pouty lips turn up into a smile. “I was just going to make us some coffee, so?—”

“Harp,” I interrupt as I add wood to the fireplace and start the fire to take the chill out of the room. “I conceded. I owe you.”

Her eyes sparkle with amusement as she considers it. “How about we do it together since youletme win? I promise not to burn the place down.”

I hesitate before nodding, trying not to let the easy warmth of her smile slip past my defenses any further. “Deal.”

Side by side, we navigate the tiny kitchen. Harper pulls the items from the bags while I make coffee.

“Peanut butter cups?” she asks as the rich aroma quickly fills the cabin.

“Your favorite,” I say, glancing over at her as she smiles.

Then I see her emotions break, and she almost starts crying.

“Harp,” I say, “what’s up?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I know you think I’m losing it because I’m crying over candy. But … it’s just a sweet gesture and something only Billie has done for me. Thank you. I wouldn’t have thought you’d remember.”

“Ah, well, you’re welcome. I only have one request though. When you do eat them, you’d better dig the middle out and stick your tongue through the hole, like old times.”

Laughter spills out of her.

“Deal,” she says as she awkwardly cracks an egg into a bowl, tiny shards of shell dropping inside.

I chuckle, dipping my finger into the bowl to remove them. “Maybe you should stick to making coffee.”

“You already did that.” She nudges me playfully with her elbow. “Give me something easier.”

Grinning, I shake my head. “Or let me teach you.”

I take a step closer to her and swipe an egg out of the carton. “When you crack it, you never do it on the side of the bowl because of the edge. Instead, try a flat surface.” I smack it down on the counter to show her. “Then you lightly dig your thumbs where the crack is. See? No shell.”

She stands back and watches me, impressed. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“My mom,” I admit, smiling at the old memories. “Breakfast was always her favorite. One day, I’ll have to make you her famous sausage bread.”

“You’d better,” Harper says, following my instructions. “And I’ll make you my mom’s roasted pumpkin seeds.”

“You’d better,” I repeat back to her.

She’s genuinely excited when she cracks them and no shells are in the bowl. “You’re a great teacher.”

“Maybe it’s the student,” I offer. “Three more, please.”

“Yes, Chef,” she offers with a wink.

There’s an easy silence as we work, our arms occasionally brushing, each contact sending tiny jolts of electricity through me. It’s frustratingly pleasant.

“Brody?” Harper speaks, pausing her task to look up at me. Her expression is sincere, vulnerable.

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