"Breakfast. Then firearms training."
Her head snaps up. "Firearms training? I told you, I qualified with my service weapon."
"And I told you, qualified isn't proficient. The range is behind the cabin. After you eat, we'll see what you can actually do."
I leave her on the porch and head inside to start breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast. Simple fuel. I can hear her moving around in her room as I cook, probably changing out of her sweat-soaked clothes.
Don't think about her changing. Don't think about what's under those yoga pants.
I focus on the eggs with more intensity than they deserve.
When she emerges, she's wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that's too big for her. One of mine. She must have found it somewhere.
"I hope you don't mind." She tugs at the hem. "Everything I packed is either suits or athleisure. I didn't exactly have time to shop for mountain-appropriate attire."
She looks ridiculous. The shirt swallows her, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her hands, hem hanging past her hips.
My gut tightens. My shirt. On her body. Wrapped around her curves.
"It's fine." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "We'll figure out proper gear. Mace can bring supplies from town."
"Mace?"
"My second in command. Runs operations at the main compound." I slide a plate across the table to her. "Eat. You'll need the energy."
She eats with the same enthusiasm as last night. Still recovering from weeks of stress and malnutrition. I make a mental note to increase her portions.
"Tell me about your team." She says it casually, but I can see the prosecutor's calculation behind her eyes. Always gathering information.
"What about them?"
"How many people work for Guardian Peak? What are their backgrounds? If they're going to be involved in my protection, I'd like to know who they are."
"They're not involved. Not directly. This property is isolated from the main compound for a reason."
"But they know I'm here."
"They know we have a high-priority client. They don't know specifics." I finish my coffee and stand to clear my plate. "Information compartmentalization. Fewer people who know details, fewer potential leaks."
"You don't trust your own team?"
"I trust them with my life. I don't trust that the Castellanos won't find a way to compromise communications, intercept messages, or put surveillance on anyone connected to me." I meet her eyes. "I'm not just protecting you from direct assault. I'm protecting you from the hundred indirect ways a sophisticated operation could locate you."
She processes that, dark eyes thoughtful. "You really have thought of everything."
"I've thought of what I can control. The rest is adaptation."
After breakfast, we head to the range. It's a cleared space about fifty yards behind the cabin, with targets set at various distances and a covered shooting station I built three years ago. I hand her a Glock 19, the same model she would have trained on for federal qualification.
"Show me what you've got."
She takes the weapon with familiar confidence, checks the chamber, verifies the magazine, and assumes a decent shooting stance. Her first three shots land center mass on the target at fifteen yards. Respectable grouping for someone who only shoots annually for qualification.
"Not bad." I move to stand beside her, close enough to correct her form. "Your stance is too narrow. You'll lose balance under stress."
I could just tell her how to adjust. Instead, I find myself reaching out, hands settling on her hips to shift her weight. The contact sends a jolt through my system that I shove aside.
"Wider. Like this."
