Guarding What’s Mine (Men of Maddox Security #3)

Chapter 24

Aubree

It’s been a little over a week since Boone and I arrived at this new safe house—another remote cabin, this one tucked near a secluded lake, ringed with tall pines that create a fortress of green. Somehow, despite the circumstances, we’ve managed to fall into a daily routine that almost feels normal, if I squint my eyes and forget we’re essentially in hiding.

The days start early. Sometimes Boone is up before the first hint of sunrise, doing perimeter checks or pacing around with that gun of his strapped to his hip. When I wake up—usually around six—he’s already brewed coffee, the rich scent drifting through the cabin like a silent good morning. We don’t say much first thing, preferring the quiet warmth of each other’s presence, sipping coffee in companionable silence.

We run together, and then we break for our respective chores. He busies himself with endless security measures—testing the locks on the doors, checking in with Dean for updates—and I find solace in the kitchen.

Temporary. The word sticks in my brain sometimes, reminding me that this—the easy laughter, the morning coffees, the teasing about who does the dishes—is all borrowed time. I keep catching myself wishing it wasn’t so, that maybe somehow we can stretch this out after the danger is gone. But then reality sets in: this is only happening because someone is threatening my life, and Boone’s assigned to protect me. Would any of this still exist when the threat is gone?

I hate that I’m falling for him, but I can’t stop it. Every time he smiles in that slow, careful way—like he’s not used to smiling often—or when his hand brushes mine, I feel my heart skip a beat. And the nights we’ve spent curled up on the couch or tangled in each other’s arms have only fueled the fire. Sometimes I catch him watching me like he can’t decide whether to keep his distance or close it entirely. It’s that push-pull that keeps me on edge… and wanting more.

Today, though, we’re back to a more subdued vibe. The day started with a run around the perimeter, Boone’s suggestion for maintaining our stamina—and probably his way of keeping me from going stir-crazy. It’s mid-afternoon now, and I’m in the kitchen testing out a new pizza recipe I’ve been mulling over. Even without my trusty pizza ovens, I can make do with the cabin’s oven and a few modifications. That’s what I keep telling myself, at least.

I’ve got flour dusting my jeans and hands as I knead the dough on the wooden countertop. I hum softly under my breath, trying to drown out the fact that Boone’s on the phone in the other room—likely talking to Dean. Every so often, I hear muffled snippets of his low voice—my name, Charles, mother, or other phrases that send a jolt of worry through me. But I focus on the dough, pressing and folding, adding a bit more water or flour as needed.

My mind drifts to the future. If this all ends well, maybe Boone and I can… what? I try to imagine him in my normal life—me, back at Slice Slice Baby, tossing dough and taking orders while he stands by the register with that vigilant expression, scanning for danger. The thought makes me smile, but also breaks my heart a bit, because deep down I know it might be too much to hope for. There’s a chance he’ll move on to the next assignment, and I’ll be left with only memories of that protective, infuriating, wonderful man who kissed me under the stars.

The dough takes shape into a neat, soft ball, and I set it aside to rest. I’ve already prepped the sauce—my special blend of tomatoes, garlic, a touch of basil—and it simmers on the stove, filling the kitchen with a mouthwatering scent. I hum again, dipping a spoon into the sauce for a taste. It’s tangy with a hint of sweetness, just how I like it.

Boone’s voice rises a little in the living area. I catch the words “no, not yet,” and “we’ll see,” which makes my stomach clench. He’s definitely being vague, which probably means they haven’t made any new breakthroughs. Or maybe they have, and it’s not the kind of news he wants to break to me.

A few minutes later, I’m rolling out the dough into a circular shape, sprinkling cornmeal on the counter so it won’t stick. That’s when I hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. I glance up to find him standing in the doorway, phone in hand, his expression unreadable.

“How’s it going?” I ask, trying to sound casual while my heart thumps in my chest.

He slips the phone into his back pocket. “Pretty good,” he says, gesturing at my dough. “You, uh… making a new masterpiece there?”

My eyebrows lift. “I hope so. It’s a new recipe I’ve been playing around with—sun-dried tomatoes, caramelized onions, fresh basil, and a sprinkle of goat cheese. Once it’s out of the oven, we’ll see if it’s a masterpiece or a disaster.”

He smiles faintly, but there’s tension around his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be great. You’ve got that pizza magic, after all.”

I laugh, though I’m sure he’s just trying to distract me. I keep my voice light. “Is that what you and Dean were talking about on the phone? My pizza magic?”

Boone’s face shutters for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out how to dodge the question. “Nah,” he says eventually, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against the counter. “We were just going over some intel. Nothing major. So, how much longer on that dough?”

He’s deflecting, and I know it. But I also sense he’s not ready to share. I think about pushing him on it for a split second, but decide not to. I’d rather not force a confrontation when I’m not sure I’m ready for the answers. So I play along. “It’s pretty much done,” I say, nodding at the flattened circle of dough. “I’ll top it now and let the oven preheat.”

Boone nods, relief flickering in his gaze. “Great. I’m starved.”

“Then I’ll get right to it,” I reply, dabbing a bit of sauce onto the dough. I spread it in concentric circles, marveling at how easily I slip into my old habits, the ones I used every day at Slice Slice Baby. I can’t help but feel a pang of longing for my little shop, even though it’s also tied to memories of fear and threats.

Boone hovers behind me, and I can practically feel his warmth. “Need help?” he offers.

“Sure,” I say, handing him the container of goat cheese. “Sprinkle this on top, but go easy. Goat cheese is strong.”

He sets to work, carefully scattering crumbles of cheese over the sauce. I add the onions, the sun-dried tomatoes, and a drizzle of olive oil. The smell is already divine, and I’m not even done yet.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” he says, a teasing note in his voice. “After this, how am I supposed to go back to normal people’s food?”

I grin, flashing him a sidelong glance. “Guess you’ll have to keep me around, huh?”

He stills for a moment, then recovers by chuckling softly. “Guess so,” he murmurs, a hint of seriousness in his tone.

The moment stretches between us, and I sense it’s one we should talk about—what happens when all this is over. But instead, I set my jaw and slide the pizza onto a baking sheet, then slip it into the oven. “All right, that’ll take about fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“Smells amazing already,” he says, his gaze lingering on me rather than the oven. I feel a tingle of awareness run up my spine as our eyes lock.

I clear my throat, drawing my attention back to tidying up. “Let’s clean up. Then we can eat.”

“Sure.”

We work side by side, washing the utensils and wiping down the counters. The conversation stays light—he asks me about how I first started experimenting with recipes at Slice Slice Baby, and I ask him about his favorite meals growing up. He mentions that in his military days, “favorite meals” were often just rations that didn’t taste awful, and I snort a laugh.

When the timer beeps, I open the oven, releasing a wave of fragrant heat. The pizza crust is golden brown at the edges, the cheese melted and lightly browned in spots. My mouth waters, and I hear Boone inhale sharply. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “If that tastes half as good as it looks, I’m gonna be in heaven.”

I slide the pizza onto a cutting board, slice it into wedges, and set the pieces on two plates. We carry them into the small dining area—really just a table by the window—and settle in. The first bite is pure bliss. The tang of the goat cheese melds with the sweetness of the caramelized onions and the intensity of the sun-dried tomatoes, all riding on a perfectly crispy crust. I’m almost proud enough to forget the heaviness lingering in the air.

“This is incredible,” Boone mumbles around a mouthful of pizza.

I offer a small smile. “Thanks. It’s not the same as using the huge ovens at the shop, but it’ll do.”

He devours his slice quickly, then grabs another. We don’t talk much as we eat—both of us too engrossed in the flavors and the relief of a good meal. By the time we’re finishing, the earlier tension seeps back in. I can feel it in the set of his shoulders, in the quick glances he casts toward his phone. Whatever Dean told him is still in the back of his mind, nagging at him.

But I decide to let it slide, at least for tonight. It’s been days since we truly relaxed—days we’ve spent in this cocoon of routine, training our bodies not to panic at every twig snap. The threat is always there, looming like a thundercloud on the horizon. I’d rather enjoy whatever solace we can find tonight, and press him for answers tomorrow.

After we clear the dishes, Boone rakes a hand through his short hair, exhaling a long breath. “That was… I needed that. Good food, good company.”

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, warmth flooding my chest. “Me too,” I admit. “It almost feels… normal.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Yeah, it does.”

He nods toward the living area. “Wanna just… chill for a bit? Maybe watch the fire?” The cabin came with an old stone fireplace, and even though it’s not particularly cold tonight, there’s something comforting about the crackle of flames.

I nod, grateful for the suggestion. “Sounds perfect.”

Within minutes, we’re on the couch, the soft glow of the fire flickering across the walls. Boone has one arm draped along the back of the couch, and I’m leaning into his side, my head resting near his shoulder. The wood pops and hisses, sending sparks dancing briefly in the air before they vanish.

For a while, we just talk—about the days we’ve spent here, the hikes around the lake, the silly card games we’ve invented to pass the time. He teases me about how I always manage to lose in poker (he’s definitely got a better poker face than I do), and I remind him that I made up for it by teaching him how to cook a killer pasta dish.

Eventually, the conversation takes a softer turn. He asks about my childhood, and I tell him about how I used to rollerblade around my neighborhood, imagining I was an explorer charting unknown territory. He laughs, saying he could picture me as a little kid with boundless energy.

I watch the firelight dance in his eyes, and I realize just how comfortable I’ve become in his presence. The worry that used to claw at my gut is still there, but it’s diminished by the confidence I have in him. He’s not just my bodyguard or some hired muscle; he’s Boone. A man who’s shown me compassion, strength, and gentleness all at once.

He shifts slightly, his free hand finding mine. The contact sends a pleasant jolt through my body. It’s such a simple thing—his fingers lacing with mine—but it sparks the memory of our kisses, of how he held me under the stars. My pulse quickens, and I look up to find him watching me intently.

“What?” I ask softly.

“Nothing,” he says, though the deep timbre of his voice gives him away. He slides his hand along my jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “Just thinking about how I’m going to miss this.”

“Miss what?” My voice catches, breath hitching in my throat.

He swallows, and I see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “Miss us…like this. If, you know, we get pulled back into the real world soon.”

My heart clenches. I pull my legs under me and shift closer, resting my palm against his chest. His heartbeat thumps strong beneath my fingertips. “Maybe we don’t have to miss it,” I offer quietly, half-terrified of his answer. “Maybe we can keep it.”

He draws a shaky breath, leaning in so our foreheads nearly touch. “Aubree,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate. “I want that. But I just don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”

I lick my lips, reaching up to thread my fingers through his hair. “I’m not asking for promises,” I say gently, “just… let’s see what happens. Maybe we’ll surprise ourselves.”

For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression warring between wanting to protect me and wanting me. Then, with a soft groan, he closes the distance, pressing his lips to mine. The kiss is slow at first, exploratory, like we’re reminding ourselves how to move in sync. But it doesn’t stay gentle for long.

Warmth floods my limbs as he deepens the kiss, parting my lips with a quiet urgency. I make a small sound of approval, sliding my hands up his arms, feeling the corded muscle beneath his shirt. He angles me backward, carefully guiding me to recline against the cushions. The firelight flickers across his face, gilding the sharp planes of his jaw.

His mouth moves to my neck, peppering my skin with soft, heated kisses that leave me trembling in their wake. My breath comes in short gasps, a mixture of anticipation and relief, like I’ve been waiting all day for this moment. I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting more.

“Aubree,” he whispers against my skin, voice husky. My name on his lips sends a shiver down my spine. I arch into him, the press of his body a comforting weight.

He slips a hand under my shirt, skimming the bare skin of my waist. Every nerve ending feels like it’s sparking to life, and I let out a quiet whimper. The sound seems to embolden him, and he returns to my mouth, claiming it in a series of slow, deliberate kisses.

For a moment, I let the outside world fade—no threats, no stepfather with suspicious transactions, no timeline. Just us, hidden away in a cabin, devouring each other’s taste like we can’t get enough. His grip tightens slightly, and I feel the tension in his muscles. I know he’s still holding back a little, concerned about hurting me or pushing too far, but I nudge him to let go.

“Boone,” I whisper, tugging the front of his shirt. “Don’t overthink. Just… be here with me.”

A soft chuckle escapes him, though his eyes are dark with desire. “Yes, ma’am,” he teases, leaning in again.

We lose ourselves in that kiss, in the gentle dance of tongues and lips, the sounds of our own breathing mingling with the crackle of the fire. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm, and I find myself wishing this moment could stretch on forever, free of any looming threats or responsibilities. Just two people, sharing something real.

Eventually, the need for air forces us apart. He presses his forehead to mine, his breath coming in ragged pulls. I brush a hand over his cheek, my chest heaving as I try to steady myself.

“That was…” I begin, but my voice trails off. I’m not sure I have the words to describe what it was.

“Yeah,” he agrees, swallowing hard. “Let’s see if I can do even better.”

I laugh as we tumble together, his mouth covering mine with another mind-numbing kiss. One that I’ll never be able to recover from.