Page 68 of Christmas Harbor Secrets
She shifted her hand, fingers curling weakly around his. “But I’m the one they’ll target. You don’t have to?—”
He smiled, slow and real. “Already done. Besides, who’s going to protect me if I don’t?”
“You’re not going to leave me?”
“Nah, thought I’d stick around awhile.” He stood up and brushed her hair from her forehead. “Get used to it.”
The rhythm of her heartbeat synced with the steady pulse of the monitor, a fragile, perfect balance of sound. For the first time in a long time, Isobel didn’t feel like she was fighting alone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The lake was still,caught between dusk and reflection, the last edge of daylight shimmering across its glassy surface. Frost dusted the dock, crunching softly beneath Rone and Isobel’s boots as they dragged the little pine tree toward the cabin. Echo padded beside them, tail swishing, nose buried in every snowdrift like he was searching for lost bones.
Isobel’s breath clouded the air, her gloved hand slipping on the rough bark. “I think this one’s crooked.”
Rone straightened, giving the trunk a critical look. “You said you wanted character.”
“I said I wanted charm. There’s a difference.”
He grinned, eyes glinting beneath the knit cap pulled low over his brow. “You’ll forget it once we cover it in popcorn.”
Echo gave a low chuff, as if doubting that, then trotted ahead toward the porch where their footprints from earlier were already filling with snow.
She laughed, shaking her head, and for a moment she let herself just stand there—watching Rone, the man who’d once thrown himself over her without a second thought, now hauling a Christmas tree like it was a prize catch. The lake shimmeredbehind him, and her chest ached—not from pain this time, but from the peace that had settled in after so much chaos.
Inside, the cabin was warm, fire crackling, the scent of cinnamon tea drifting from the counter. Echo circled the rug twice before collapsing near the hearth with a groan, tail thumping once as if to say,finally home.
It wasn’t her childhood cabin since they couldn’t risk going there, but it was a close replica at with its knotted pine floorboards near the window. An uneven wooden mantel where her father’s fishing photo leaned slightly left. Beside it sat his old Altoid tin—where he used to keep hooks, screws, and the tiny things that didn’t belong anywhere else. She’d brought everything she could from storage when they’d found this place.
Rone brushed past her to set the tree in the stand, his movements careful but distracted. Echo’s ears twitched, eyes tracking him, then flicking toward her—like the dog knew something was brewing.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she said.
He paused, still crouched by the tree. “Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
His mouth twitched. “You’re not wrong.”
She sat on the edge of the couch, tugging at the popcorn string they’d started earlier, kernels scattering. Echo’s nose followed the ones that bounced his way. “Any news about Laurel Tide?”
Rone shook his head, straightening. “Nothing yet. But Blake’s gone under again.”
Her brows lifted. “Already? The last op just ended a week ago.”
“Apparently, new solid intel came in. He’s taken down two other smaller groups, but he’s determined to get the head of the organization.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Sent me amessage last night asking how to change a pump on a boat. So wherever he’s headed, it’s wet and probably not warm.”
She smiled faintly. “Think that pretty FBI agent’s with him?”
Rone’s grin was slow, thoughtful. “Not sure. But if she is, that might be one interesting assignment.”
“Mm.” She popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth and arched a brow. “Sounds like trouble.”
“Always does.” He crossed the room, picking up the other end of the string. “Here, help me with this before Echo eats half of it.”
They strung the garland around the tree, laughing when the line tangled, then ducking under branches to loop it again. The fire snapped, the light soft and gold against the windowpanes. For a while, it was just them. The rhythm of quiet domesticity she’d never dared to dream of having again. Echo huffed now and then from his spot by the fire, tail twitching each time Rone brushed too close. Even he seemed to feel the shift in the air, something bright, expectant.
When the popcorn ran low, Isobel opened the small tin, resting on the mantel, she’d found in her father’s old boxes. Inside, her father’s old fishing line was wound tight around a tiny wooden reindeer—her childhood ornament. The paint had faded, but she smiled anyway and hung it near the top of the tree. Her heart pinched, full and aching. Her father would’ve approved of Rone and her being together. Rone had proven himself to be a man who could fix anything—and who stayed when it mattered most.
