Page 13 of Road Trip With Her Daddy Protector

We carry the last bags inside. The interior is all knotty-pine walls and exposed beams, the air tinged with wood smoke and lemon oil. Antique lanterns hang from wrought-iron hooks, their amber bulbs casting cozy pools of light. A river-stone hearth dominates the living room, fronted by a deep leather sofa and a Navajo-pattern blanket draped across the back. Everything feels solid, permanent—like the cabin has withstood a hundred storms and will weather a hundred more.

“Kitchen’s through there,” Gus says, nodding toward an archway. “Two bedrooms upstairs, plus a loft. Generator’s full, and I’ve got solar panels on the south roof. We can stay off-grid for a while.”

I trail my fingers over a polished cedar banister. “It’s amazing. I can’t believe you built this.”

He shrugs, a little embarrassed. “Picked away at it after deployments. Gave me something to do with my hands.”

I laugh softly. “Your idea of a ‘handyman project’ is most people’s dream home.”

He lifts one shoulder. “Come on—I’ll show you your room.”

Upstairs, the hallway smells like fresh sawdust and lavender. He opens a heavy timber door to reveal a room bathed in dappled light. A quilt of moss-green and cream covers a queen-size bed. In the corner, a reading nook holds an overstuffed chair beneatha dormer window. Bookshelves line the wall, already half-filled with classics and field guides.

“I stocked a few titles I thought you’d like,” Gus says, almost shy. “Brontë, Austen… some modern stuff too.”

Emotion swells in my chest. He remembers my love of reading, something Tyler mocked as “boring.” I turn, intending only to thank him, but the earnest tenderness in his hazel eyes pulls me in. I rise on tiptoe and brush a kiss across his mouth.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

His hands settle at my waist. “You’re welcome.” The syllables rumble through me like distant thunder.

We linger a moment longer—breathing the same air, hearts righting themselves—then he releases me. “Let’s get the food put away.”

Downstairs, we move in domestic rhythm: me unpacking dry goods into rough-hewn cabinets, Gus stowing perishables in a propane fridge. He sets a cast-iron kettle on the gas range, ignites the burner with a click. Soon the kitchen is filled with steam and the earthy scent of Earl Grey.

Cup warming my hands, I perch on a barstool while Gus flips open his phone—a sturdy satellite model—and sends a text to Mason. He sees my curious look and reads aloud: “Made it to Ridge. Perimeter secure. Any movement on TC?”

I blow across my tea. “Do you really think he’ll chase me this far?”

Gus leans against the counter, arms crossed. The sleeves of his thermal shirt cling to biceps that still make me blush. “Tyler strikes me as the kind who hates losing. But he’s also sloppy.Mason finds patterns, exploits them. If Tyler leaves Florida, we’ll know.”

I nod, comforted but still wary. “And until then?”

“Until then, we live.” He steps closer, hooking a finger under my chin so I meet his gaze. “We hike, fish, read by the fire. We make this cabin ours.”

The wordoursthrums through me like a plucked string. I set my mug aside and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to his chest. His heartbeat thuds steady beneath my ear, a drum I could fall asleep to.

By twilightthe truck is empty, groceries stored, linens fresh on the bed. Gus fires up the generator long enough to pump well water, then shuts it down to save fuel. Solar batteries click into place with a reassuring hum.

On the porch we share a simple dinner—grilled cheese sandwiches crisped in cast iron, paired with tomato soup that steams in enamel mugs. Night settles around us, thick with pine resin and cricket song. In the distance an owl hoots, its mournful call echoing off the ridgeline.

Gus sits beside me on a cedar bench, one arm draped along the back. Lantern light throws amber across his sharp cheekbones, the silver at his temples glinting like moonlit metal. I reach over, tracing the strong line of his jaw.

“What’s going on inside that head of yours?” I ask softly.

He exhales, turning so our knees brush. “Strategy. Entry points, sight lines. I keep running scenarios.” A wry smile tugs his mouth. “Old habits.”

“Do any of those scenarios involve Tyler showing up here?”

“Worst-case planning, yes. But I built this place like a fortress.” He taps the railing. “Reinforced window frames, door bars, hidden panic room in the pantry. Cameras feed to my phone.”

I blink. “A panic room?”

“Small crawl space behind the shelves,” he explains. “Steel plate walls, coded latch. If something happens and I’m not here, you lock yourself in and hit the beacon inside. Mason’s team gets an instant alert.”

The thought of hiding while Gus faces danger alone sends a chill through me. “I don’t want to be locked away while you’re out there.”

His gaze softens, but his answer is firm. “Your safety is non-negotiable, Lola. Promise me.”

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