“He should be here for it.”
The last word cracked, and I was moving before she could turn toward the window and hide the tears. I caught her wrist, brought her out of the chair, and lifted her sideways across my thighs. One arm slid around my shoulders while the other gripped the front of my shirt, and I tucked her against my chest until her face pressed into the side of my neck.
She held herself rigid, fighting grief because she’d probably been doing too damn much of that alone. I stroked one palm down her back until the tension left her in a shuddering breath.
“I miss him,” she whispered.
“So do I.”
“You should’ve heard how he talked about you, Brogan,” she murmured, her fingers tightening in my shirt. “He was so proud.”
My hand stopped between her shoulder blades. Praise had never meant much to me, but hearing that from Otis’s granddaughter reached someplace medals, rank, money, and votes of confidence had never touched.
“Thanks.”
Her body softened completely after a while, but the comfort shifted when she moved, her ass dragging over the erection trapped behind my jeans. She went still for half a heartbeat, then her fingers tightened instead of letting go, and I held her there long enough for both of us to understand what had changed before I set her back in her chair.
“Finish your dinner.”
Her mouth twitched through the remnants of grief. “You’re very bossy.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
She blinked, clearly unsure what to say, then returned to her soup with cheeks still pink. We finished eating while she told me more, and I started folding her plans into mine.
Afterward, she carried the dishes to the sink, and I took the towel from her hand when she tried to wash and dry at the same time. We worked side by side in easy quiet until a gust of wind struck the back of the house and rattled the door beside the pantry. The sound was wrong enough that I set down the plate in my hand and crossed the room.
The dead bolt turned, but the latch barely entered the warped frame. I pressed my palm against the wood and watched the bolt slip free with almost no resistance. “What the fuck?”
Jacqueline dried her hands and came closer. “Grandpa kept meaning to replace that. It still catches if you lift the handle while you turn the lock.”
“A lock that requires a trick isn’t a lock.”
“It can wait until morning.”
I opened the mudroom cabinet, found Otis’s red toolbox, and pulled out the drill, brackets, and measuring tape. “I’m bracing it now. I’ll replace the frame tomorrow.”
“You’ve been on my property less than six hours, and you’ve already installed surveillance, assigned armed men to the hills, moved into my spare room, inspected my injury, and started repairing the house.”
“That’s an accurate list.” I measured the door without looking away from the frame.
Her laughter slipped through the kitchen. “That’s your answer?”
“What part was a question?”
“So bossy,” she murmured, leaning against the counter with a look that said she was enjoying this far too much to pretend otherwise.
“Yup.”
She swung one foot slowly above the floor as she watched me install the first bracket. “Do all your neighbors get this much attention?”
“Don’t have others.”
“But if you did?”
“They wouldn’t.”
The humor faded from her face after a moment, leaving something softer and more vulnerable behind. “Why are you doing so much for me?”
