The door closes.
I stand on her porch for a full minute, listening to the locks engage, before I walk back to my own cabin and spend the next four hours staring at the ceiling and trying to forget the way she looked at my mouth.
Professional distance.
Clear boundaries.
No more.
I give it two days before we break every single one of those rules.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARA
Professional distance lasts approximately eighteen hours.
To be fair, I really did try. I woke up at seven, did yoga in the cabin's small living room, showered, dressed in practical hiking clothes per the training schedule Boone slipped under my door sometime before dawn. I ate breakfast alone, reading through the morning's emails from my team in San Francisco, and didn't once think about the way his voice dropped when he said my name.
Okay, I thought about it twice. Maybe three times.
The knock on my door comes at exactly eight o'clock.
I open it to find Boone in tactical gear, his auburn beard freshly trimmed, ice blue eyes already assessing me from boots to ponytail.
"You're dressed appropriately."
"Don't sound so surprised." I step out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind me. "I do occasionally follow instructions."
"Occasionally being the operative word." He starts walking toward the training grounds, and I fall into step besidehim. "Today's schedule includes basic orienteering, emergency signaling, and an introduction to self defense fundamentals."
"Sounds delightful."
"It's not meant to be delightful. It's meant to keep you alive if you ever find yourself separated from protection."
The training grounds sprawl across the eastern edge of the compound, a mix of obstacle courses, shooting ranges, and what looks like a ropes course threading through the trees. A few of the team members are already out here. Ryder, who I met briefly at dinner last night, is running drills with another man I don't recognize. In the distance, I can see Wolfe's tall figure moving through the forest, silent and watchful.
Boone leads me to a clearing where a map table has been set up, topographical charts spread across its surface.
"Orienteering first." He hands me a compass. "Do you know how to use this?"
"Point the red end north?"
His jaw tightens. "Close enough. Let's start with the basics."
For the next two hours, Boone teaches me how to read terrain, identify landmarks, and navigate without GPS. He's patient in a way I didn't expect, correcting my mistakes without condescension, explaining concepts multiple times when I don't immediately grasp them.
He's also standing very close. Constantly.
Every time he leans over my shoulder to point at the map, I catch his scent. Cedar and gun oil and something uniquely him. Every time his hand brushes mine while adjusting my grip on the compass, heat sparks up my arm. Every time those ice blue eyes meet mine, I think about last night and the way his voice sounded when he said maybe you're both.
Professional distance. Right.
"You're not paying attention."
I blink, refocusing on the map in front of me. "I am absolutely paying attention."
"Then what did I just say about the contour lines?"
