My front door unlocked.
The zip tie on my counter like a silent threat.
This cabin. One bed. Jack lying beside me like a wall between me and the world.
My heartbeat speeds up. I roll my head slightly.
For a split second, panic claws up my throat so fast I taste it. My hand shoots out to the other side of the mattress—empty.
Then I hear it.
A soft clink. A low sizzle. The sound of someone moving around in the kitchen.
I exhale shakily.
Okay. He didn’t vanish into the night. My overly dramatic brain can unclench.
I slide out of bed, tugging down my oversized t-shirt, and pad toward the doorway. The cabin is quiet except for the kitchen—where Jack is standing at the stove in a dark t-shirt and sweats, barefoot, cooking like he belongs in a cozy domestic fantasy and not, you know…a protective safe-house thriller.
My eyes catch on his forearms—corded muscle, a faint scar near his wrist, veins that make me want to bite my lip. He’s moving with calm efficiency, flipping something in a pan, shoulders broad enough to block the whole window.
He glances up the second I enter the room. “You sleep?” he asks. His voice is husky in the morning. Less controlled. More… dangerous.
“A little,” I say, because my brain refuses to admit I slept surprisingly well knowing a very large, very hot man was two feet away and promising the universe he’d protect me.
Jack’s gaze sweeps over me—bare legs, messy hair—and his jaw tightens. Then he looks away like it costs him something. “Coffee?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Please. Immediately. I’m ninety percent caffeine at this point.”
He grabs a mug and pours coffee like he’s done it a thousand times. He sets it on the table in front of me with quiet care, then goes back to the stove.
“What are you making?” I ask, sliding into a chair.
“Eggs,” he answers. “Toast. Bacon.”
“Bacon,” I repeat, impressed. “So you’re not just a scary man. You’re a scary man who feeds his… client.”
He flicks a glance at me. “Eat.”
I swear he can turn one word into a command that makes my spine tingle.
“Yes, sir,” I tease lightly.
Jack’s shoulders go still for half a second. Then, without turning around, he says, voice low: “Don’t.”
My cheeks heat. “Sorry,” I mutter, taking a sip of coffee. It’s strong. Perfect. “Habit. My coping mechanism is flirting with danger.”
He finally turns, bringing a plate to the table. Eggs, bacon, toast. Like a truck stop breakfast, but somehow he makes it look like something out of a romance novel.
He sits across from me, posture alert even while eating—eyes flicking to windows, to the door, to the quiet beyond.
I take a bite of bacon and almost moan. “Oh my God.”
Jack’s brow lifts slightly. “It’s bacon.”
“It’sperfect bacon,” I correct. “Crispy but not burnt. Salty but not… aggressively salty. How are you good at everything?”
His mouth twitches. “I’m not.”
