Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
He glances over as I step in. “Morning,” he says in that deep voice.
“Morning,” I reply, stifling a yawn.
I gather what I need for coffee, mindful of how limited our supplies are. We haven’t exactly ventured out much. Aside from the small run Boone did to a grocery store two towns over, we’ve been living off a combination of what was already stocked here—canned goods and some dry staples—and the fresh ingredients he managed to grab. Yesterday, I taught him how to cook a simple pasta dish. It was adorable how focused he became, like he was on a secret mission. I’d have teased him more if I wasn’t so grateful for the distraction.
He stands when he sees me fiddling with the coffee maker. “I got it,” he says, coming over to take the kettle from my hands.
I let him step in, thankful of the way he takes care of me. Boone keeps everything in the cabin meticulously organized. He calls it ‘operational efficiency.’ I guess when your job is security, the concept of leaving anything to chance doesn’t exist.
We don’t talk much as we finish our coffee. Mornings are quiet—our unspoken agreement to let each other wake up before diving into heavier topics like who might be trying to kill me. Or how we’re going to keep my pizza shop afloat when I’m here in the middle of nowhere.
Eventually, he sets his mug down with a soft thud. “Ready for the jog?”
I force a small smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Jogging is Boone’s idea, of course, a leftover from his military days. The first time he suggested it, I nearly laughed in his face—running hasn’t ever been my favorite activity. But he insisted it’d help me blow off steam, and to my surprise, it kind of does. There’s something about the repetitive pounding of my feet on the dirt path, the crisp morning air filling my lungs, that momentarily clears my mind.
We head outside, the grass still wet with dew. I wait while Boone locks the cabin door behind us. Then we set off at a light pace around the property. The route is basically a big loop circling the lake, passing through a patch of forest, and finally curving back to the cabin’s gravel driveway.
We run in silence, just the sound of our breaths mingling with the crunch of gravel underfoot. Sometimes, I catch myself glancing at Boone’s profile. Strong shoulders, steady stride. He’s always scanning the perimeter, even as we jog, eyes shifting left and right, searching for threats. It reminds me how seriously he takes his job—and how thoroughly he’s put distance between us on a personal level.
Over the last few days, we’ve shared the same small space, cooked together, laughed a few times, and yet…he hasn’t made another move. No more kisses, no more lingering touches. Part of me wants to blame the tension we’re under, but the truth is, I can see it in his eyes—he’s purposefully holding back. And that stings more than I care to admit.
By the time we finish our circuit, my legs are burning and I’m gasping for air. Boone hardly seems winded, which is borderline hot as hell. He offers me a bottle of water from the porch, and I take it, murmuring thanks as I gulp it down.
We head inside, and Boone immediately checks his phone, scanning for any updates from Maddox Security. Most of the time, there’s nothing new. I can tell he’s frustrated by the lack of progress—though he tries to hide it from me, I’ve learned to read him at least a little.
I linger near the kitchen counter, feeling uncertain. “I’m going to do some meal prep,” I say, my voice sounding oddly loud in the silent cabin. “We’ve still got those chicken breasts to use up.”
“Sure,” Boone replies, sounding distracted. His gaze is on the phone screen, brow furrowed.
I try not to let his distance bother me, but it does. I tell myself it’s for the best—he’s supposed to be protecting me, not falling into bed with me. But I can’t deny the ache of disappointment. There’s a gnawing sense of loneliness, like I’m stuck in limbo, waiting for my life to begin again.
By the time evening rolls around, I can’t stand being inside another moment. The weather’s lovely—clear skies, mild temperature, and a faint breeze that ruffles the tall pines surrounding the lake. An idea strikes me, and I spring into action.
I rummage through the kitchen cupboards until I find some pasta, a can of tomato sauce, and a hunk of mozzarella I’d been saving. And chicken. I’ll make a nice chicken parmigiana. Perfect. I busy myself boiling water, chopping onions, and adding spices. The smell of garlic and tomatoes fills the small space, lending it a cozy warmth that momentarily makes me forget all the ugliness that drove me here.