Emma stepped inside, and warmth enveloped her—not just the temperature, but the atmosphere. The space was larger than expected, open-concept, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark ocean. Comfortable leather furniture. A professional-grade kitchen that showed signs of use. Books on shelves. Maps on walls.
“What’s that?” she asked Nick.
“Inside this cottage, we’re not your bosses.” His tone was light but sincere. “You’re a guest here. More than that—you’re family now. Zach’s protocol or no.”
Zach made a sound that might have been disagreement. Or agreement. Who could tell?
Nick ignored him. “You’re allowed to tell him when he’s being impossible.”
Despite everything—the threat, the upheaval, the strangeness of standing in her boss’s home at night—a smile tugged at her mouth. “Noted.”
“Room’s this way,” Zach said, already moving down a hallway.
Emma followed, her laptop bag bumping against her hip. Photographs lined the walls: three boys at various ages, always together. Zach was easy to spot even as a teenager—taller than the others, serious even then.
A life she barely understood.
Zach pushed open a door at the end of the hall.
She stepped inside and froze.
This wasn’t a guest room.
The room was too personal for that. A king-sized bed dominated one wall, made with military precision—corners crisp, surface smooth. A dresser held a watch, a weapon she couldn’t identify, and a stack of books. The closet door stood ajar, revealing shirts hung in perfect order.
On the nightstand: a framed photo of a military unit, in full gear, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Grinning.
This was Zach’s room.
“Wait. This is your room.” Emma turned to face him. “Where’s the guest room?”
“There isn’t one.” He placed her duffel on the bed, his movements efficient. “You’ll take mine.”
“Absolutely not.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bedroom, Zach.”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Very negotiable. I’ll take the couch.”
His expression didn’t change. “No.”
“I’ve imposed enough without displacing you from your own bed.”
“Emma.” Her name in his growly voice did something to her nervous system. “You’re not sleeping on the couch. End of discussion.”
“Then neither are you.” She matched his tone, stubborn. “You’re enormous. You’ll wake up with your spine in knots.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or reluctant amusement. “I’m six-four and have slept in far worse places than a couch. It’s long enough. I’ll survive.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is—” Emma stopped, aware of how close they were standing, how his presence filled the room. She could smell him: clean soap, coffee, something delicious she couldn’t name. “The point is, you’re already doing enough. Protecting me, uprooting your life, giving me a safe place to sleep. I don’t need to take your bed too.”
For a long moment, Zach simply looked at her. His eyes—that stormy gray blue—searched her face as if seeking to decode the mysteries of the universe.
“Relax. Unpack. There’s plenty of space in the dresser and the closet,” he said finally. “I need to check the perimeter.”
