“Training?”
“Self-defense. Situational awareness. Basic protocols.” He said it like it was obvious. “If this guy escalates, you need to know how to protect yourself.”
“Okay, tomorrow.” She didn’t immediately move. “What about you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Zach looked at her. Emma held his gaze, calm and unflinching, and he realized she was genuinely concerned about whether he’d rest. Not because she needed him sharp—though she did—but because she cared whether he took care of himself.
When was the last time someone asked him that question and meant it?
“I’ll sleep.” It was mostly true. He’d sleep in shifts, wake at every sound, maintain awareness even in unconsciousness. But he’d sleep.
Emma seemed to accept that. She unfolded herself from the window seat, collected her empty mug, and paused near the hallway.
“Goodnight, Zach.”
“Goodnight.”
She disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door with a soft click.
Zach remained at the window, watching the storm, listening to the hushed sounds of Emma in the next room. After a few minutes, her light went out—or rather, the candlelight visible under her door went out.
He should do another perimeter check, verify that the storm wasn't compromising any security measures. Review tomorrow’s schedule and confirm personnel assignments.
Instead, he remained in the candlelit quiet, rain streaking down the window, and tried to identify the unfamiliar sensation beneath his sternum.
He sat in the near darkness and realized her safety had become more than a mission parameter.
Chapter 13
Annoying Roommate
The cottage kitchensmelled like home.
Emma would never have thought Zach’s place could be a home—he was too rigid, too controlled—but right now, it felt lived in. Warm.
She checked the pot roast, pleased with how the meat fell apart. Starting the slow cooker after breakfast had been worth it. The past two days had the men running ragged with hurricane prep, guzzling coffee as fuel. Someone needed to intervene before they expired from sheer masculine stubbornness.
The knife block beside the stove was professional-grade. So was the cast-iron skillet hanging from the pot rack. That wasn’t surprising, since they owned resorts. What startled her were the fresh herbs in small pots on the windowsill—rosemary, thyme, basil—and the pantry stocked for an expert chef.
She wondered which brother cooked. Probably Nick. He seemed the type.
Emma was whisking together a brown sugar glaze for the roasted carrots when she heard voices at the front door.
“Is that garlic?” David’s voice, hopeful and reverent. “Please tell me that’s garlic.”
“You’ve been living on protein bars again, haven’t you?” Nick’s dry, sardonic voice.
She smiled, not turning from the stove. “In here!”
They appeared in the kitchen doorway, both still in work clothes—Nick in dark slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, David in jeans and a rumpled Henley. David made a beeline for the oven like a homing missile.
“Don’t even think about it,” Emma brandished her whisk. “Not ready yet.”
“You’re cruel.” He grinned, boyish and unrepentant, and hopped up to sit on the island counter instead.
