Page 32 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Morning,” he says, voice low and warm. “Hungry?”
“Always,” I croak, because pregnancy and also because the food he’s cooking is singing my name. I push up on the couch, rubbing my eyes. “Why is there a… door chock? Door… shoe? Door?—”
“Wedge,” he supplies, faintly amused. “I know it’s ugly, but it’s effective.”
“Like crocs,” I mutter.
He brings me a plate—eggs, toast, sliced oranges—and a tall glass of water he sets down with the ceremony of a potion in a fairy tale. “Hydration.”
“Yes, Captain Safety,” I say automatically, and take a long sip. “Don’t you have work?”
“I am working,” he says, and that’s when I notice the subtle—the radio clipped at his belt, the way his phone is face down but within reach, his eyes doing that quick sweep every time there’s a new noise in the hall.
It’s both unnerving and… steadying.
“What’s the plan today?” he asks, perching on the coffee table like my living room is the briefing room and I’m the VIP. “Besides breakfast.”
“Christmas shopping,” I say around a bite of toast, “and I want to pick out a tree. I refuse to be a grown adult without a tree.”
He nods like I’ve given him coordinates. “Then we’ll do both.”
“We?” I arch a brow, pretend casual. “Aren’t you supposed to be tux-guarding hedge-fund Santas?”
He watches me for a beat and then sits beside me on the couch, not too close, elbows on his knees, hands laced. “I should tell you why the wedge is here.”
I set the plate down, stomach doing a little swoop. “Okay.”
He keeps his voice steady. “There’s a new player on a case we’re running. Name’s Mercer. He started following theteaminstead of the client—pattern-of-life stuff. We clocked him at a few places you’ve been. Bean Flicker. Baby Bungalow. The hospital.”
My heartbeat does a rabbit thing. “Is he after me?”
“No,” he says immediately. “No evidence of that. He’s mappingus.But by extension, he could mapyou.This is probably nothing. We’re treating it like something. That means: we don’t make it easy. We go together. We vary routes. We park under cameras. We keep our ‘I feel weird’ policy on loud. If anything pings wrong, we change the plan. And you text me when I’m not with you. Deal?”
I blow out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It helps that he says it like a seatbelt, not a prison. “Do I get a code word?”
He considers, dead serious. “Gingerbread.”
I snort. “Perfect. Festive distress.”
“Exactly.” The corner of his mouth kicks up. “We’ll do Christmas. I’ll handle the vigilance.”
“Sharing the mental load is the hottest thing you’ve ever said,” I tell him, and the way his eyes soften makes my chest tighten in a way that isn’t panic.
We bundle up—me in a cream coat and my “I’m cozy but still a person” scarf, him in a peacoat and beanie—and take the stairs because apparently the elevator is for people who don’t have a bodyguard shadow. He carries my tote and my reusable shopping bags because he’s a gentleman who also fears paper handles.
In the car, he sets the mirrors, checks the rearview, then… okay this is extremely rude… reaches over to buckle me in when I fumble it. “Not condescending,” he says when my eyebrows go up. “Just… invested.”
“Fine,” I grumble, cheeks warm. “I like being invested in.”
The tree lot pops up in a vacant corner of a grocery parking lot. It’s like a movie. All twinkle lights strung overhead, pine scent so strong it feels like a forest exhale. A man in a Santa hat and hunter’s plaid greets us with mittened enthusiasm. His name tag says GUS (yes, like the mouse).
“First tree?” Gus asks, taking us in with kind eyes.
“First tree as a responsible adult,” I confess.
“Got yourself a helper,” he says, nodding at Lucas appreciatively. “He looks like he knows knots.”
“He knows… everything,” I say, then want to crawl into a wreath.
