Page 31 of The Bodyguard Situation

“I know.” He grins, eyes warm. The tension I saw last night has vanished. “Sleep okay?”

“Better than okay,” I admit, pulling the robe tighter around myself. “Honestly, I haven’t slept that well in weeks. Maybe years.”

He nods knowingly, his gaze growing softer and more serious. “You deserve solid rest.”

Something in the way he says it makes warmth spread in my chest. I know he means it.

I bite my lip as butterflies stir in my stomach. “What about you?”

“Sure.” He shrugs lightly, turning back to the bacon. “The couch isn’t exactly a king-size bed, but it’s better than the floor. I can’t complain.”

I hesitate, a tiny pang of guilt nudging at me. “Sorry.”

He flashes me a look of mild amusement. “No apologies, Harp. You looked comfortable. But I did notice you drooled all over my pillow.”

My mouth drops open. “No, I did not.”

He chuckles, reaching out to teasingly tap beneath my chin. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

I swat his hand away, laughing despite myself. “You’re the worst.”

“You say that, but here I am, cooking you breakfast like a saint.” He points at the coffeepot with the spatula. “Fresh coffee too. Only the best for the best. Empty mug waiting for you.”

I shake my head and smile, while filling my cup. As I hold the warm mug, savoring the rich aroma, I glance around the cabin, taking in the rustic charm of the exposed wood beams, the stone fireplace, and the books stacked haphazardly on the shelves against the wall. It’s so different from the chaos of our world and far away from Micah’s sterile, perfect mansion. This one-bedroom home with an open floor plan feels like a true escape—one I’ve needed for a long damn time.

“You’re staring again,” he says lightly, loading up two plates, piled with scrambled eggs and crispy bacon.

“Just thinking,” I admit, meeting his gaze. “This place suits you. Quiet, cozy, hidden.”

“Sounds like a polite way of calling me a loner.” His lips curve slightly as he sets our plates on the small wooden table that’s only large enough for two.

“Maybe,” I tease, taking a sip of coffee and smiling over the rim of my mug. “Or maybe you seem happy here. Like it’s home.”

“Right now, I am.”

The sincerity in his voice tugs at my heart.

I glance down shyly, my cheeks warming again. “Me too.”

He pauses, suddenly serious. “Good.”

He studies me for a moment, his eyes gentle as he glances at my bare ring finger, but he doesn’t say a word about it.

We eat in comfortable silence, exchanging occasional glances. The sun brightens the cabin, chasing away lingering shadows of fear and uncertainty. For the first time in days, my shoulders actually relax. I sneak another look at Brody, catching his small smile before he quickly looks away. It makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, waking up to mornings like this—safe, warm, and with someone who makes me feel genuinely seen—is exactly what I’ve always needed.

After breakfast, I curl up on the overstuffed chair by the window, wrapping a thick quilt around myself as I watch Brody step off the back porch. The morning fog still hangs over the trees, creating a sense of solitude. For the first time in days, my mind isn’t racing; it’s simply quiet.

I close my eyes and drift off because I’m so relaxed.

When I wake hours later, Brody is nowhere to be found. I get up and step out onto the porch, letting the midday breeze brush across my cheeks. The forest is silent, bathed in the muted sunlight filtering through the trees. I breathe in fresh air, letting it fill my lungs, and take it all in.

The only thing that pulls me away is a rhythmic sound of an axe splitting wood.

I glance to my left and see Brody standing near a woodpile, muscles flexing with each powerful swing of the blade. His tattoos are on full display, and he’s a work of art. I freeze, momentarily mesmerized by his movements—the precision, the control. The wood splits effortlessly beneath his hands, pieces scattering neatly around him like confetti.

He pauses, rolling his shoulders and stretching slightly. His dark hair clings damply to his forehead, and even from here, I can see the focused intensity in his deep blue eyes. I’m captivated by his strength. It’s not flashy or arrogant, but solid and dependable.

My stomach knots as my thoughts drift to Micah. I recognize him for what he really was—a monster cleverly hidden behind smiles and whispered promises. The shame of believing in that illusion claws at my throat. How could I have been so blind?

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