Page 136 of The Bodyguard Situation

“To be a fly on the wall when he finds out,” I mutter. “Poor Lexi. She’s going to have to listen to this until her babies are born. That might be the only thing that pulls him away from complaining about it.”

“He’s out of town until tomorrow. We’ll be on the mountain by the time he notices.”

I shake my head as laughter escapes me while I settle deeper into the seat. The Charger hums beneath us like she knows exactly where we’re going. The open road stretches endlessly ahead, and the uncertainty doesn’t feel like a threat, but more like a promise as we race to our secret escape.

Brody glances over at me, his hand leaving the shifter to slide toward me. His fingers find mine easily, lacing them together without looking down.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod, thumb brushing along his. “It just feels different this time. It’s exciting.”

His mouth curves, just slightly. “That’s because it is.”

When when we cross the Tennessee state line, the sun dips lower behind us. And somewhere between stolen cars, back-road laughter, and the rhythm of his thumb against my skin, I realize we’re not running anymore. We’re going home.

By the time we pull up to the cabin, the last light of the day is caught in the trees—burnt orange bleeding into deep purple as the sun sinks behind the mountains. The Charger rumbles to a stop, its engine growling low, like it doesn’t want the ride to be over. Brody kills the ignition and rests his hand on the gearshift for a second longer, eyes on the cabin ahead.

It looks just like I remember the first time I laid eyes on it—wood weathered by years of Tennessee rain, the wraparound porch draped in shadows, a porch light glowing, like our past selves have been waiting for us to return to the comfort.

I step out of the car, shoes crunching against gravel, and breathe in the scent of pine and damp earth. The air is cooler here, thinner, cleaner. It wraps around me like a welcome, slipping into my bones and settling deep inside of me.

Brody circles to the trunk, grabs our bags, and walks beside me. I loop my arm around his as he leads the way up the steps. He unlocks the door, and my heart races with anticipation. We step inside, and the cabin is warm. The lamp next to the couch glows yellow, and I replay all the special moments we shared here. There’s a faint scent of cedar and vanilla hanging in the air, and music plays low from a record player in the corner that I never noticed before. It’s like it’s been playing since before we arrived. But it’s the flowers that catch my breath.

A simple arrangement sits on the kitchen table—wildflowers in a glass jar, not overly done, not staged. Just intentional, like someone didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but did anyway. I glance at Brody, and he avoids eye contact, pretending to fiddle with the luggage straps like they’re suddenly complex knots.

“Okay,” I say, “what’s going on?”

He glances up, face carefully blank. “What do you mean?”

“This.” I gesture around the room. “The music. The flowers. Did you hire a romance consultant while I wasn’t looking?”

“Just wanted to make it nice for you,” he says too casually. “And I didn’t want to go grocery shopping.”

My brows rise.

“We’re not leaving the cabin for two weeks. Just me and you, Sleeping Beauty.” He chuckles, finally meeting my gaze. There’s something warm behind his eyes.

I step forward, my fingers brushing his as I take one of the bags from his hand and set it on the floor.

“This is beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me.

The silence between us stretches for a beat, and it feels like standing on the edge of something bigger than the Tennessee sky.

I turn toward the living room, running my hand along the back of the couch, and let the coziness wash over me. The last time I was here, I was half broken, full of fear, and unsure of everything. But tonight, I’m none of those things. I’m a changed woman because of Brody and his love.

The night settles around us like an exhale, and even though Brody drove the entire eleven hours, he still makes us dinner.

It’s simple though—grilled cheese and tomato soup. I try to help, but he insists I don’t lift a finger. I let him win, mostly because I like watching him move around the kitchen; it’s sexy. He doesn’t talk much while he cooks, just hums to the soft music on the record player. Every so often, he steals a glance and a kiss, and I breathe in every moment.

Once our food is ready, he sets it down on the two-person table we’ve eaten many meals at.

“Wow, this is the best grilled cheese. Thanks, Chef,” I say, loving how gooey it is.

He smirks. “You’re welcome, cutie.”

We exchange stolen glances and silent conversations. I never force Brody to speak, not when I know he’s comfortable not to. It’s fine because I don’t need words to communicate with him. His eyes say everything he doesn’t.

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