Chapter 7 Stella
SEVEN
STELLA
I wake up warm.
Not in-love-and-being-spooned warm—don’t get excited. Jack stayed on his side like a gentleman. But the bed is still warm on the other side, and the room smells faintly like pine and clean laundry and… him.
I stare at the ceiling for a second, disoriented, then the memory of last night slides back in like a cold hand.
Fireworks. Jack’s voice in my ear. I’m taking you home.
My front door unlocked.
The zip tie on my counter like a silent threat.
This cabin. One bed. Jack lying beside me like a wall between me and the world.
My heartbeat speeds up. I roll my head slightly.
For a split second, panic claws up my throat so fast I taste it. My hand shoots out to the other side of the mattress—empty.
Then I hear it.
A soft clink. A low sizzle. The sound of someone moving around in the kitchen.
I exhale shakily.
Okay. He didn’t vanish into the night. My overly dramatic brain can unclench.
I slide out of bed, tugging down my oversized t-shirt, and pad toward the doorway.
The cabin is quiet except for the kitchen—where Jack is standing at the stove in a dark t-shirt and sweats, barefoot, cooking like he belongs in a cozy domestic fantasy and not, you know… a protective safe-house thriller.
My eyes catch on his forearms—corded muscle, a faint scar near his wrist, veins that make me want to bite my lip. He’s moving with calm efficiency, flipping something in a pan, shoulders broad enough to block the whole window.
He glances up the second I enter the room. “You sleep?” he asks. His voice is husky in the morning. Less controlled. More… dangerous.
“A little,” I say, because my brain refuses to admit I slept surprisingly well knowing a very large, very hot man was two feet away and promising the universe he’d protect me.
Jack’s gaze sweeps over me—bare legs, messy hair—and his jaw tightens. Then he looks away like it costs him something. “Coffee?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Please. Immediately. I’m ninety percent caffeine at this point.”
He grabs a mug and pours coffee like he’s done it a thousand times. He sets it on the table in front of me with quiet care, then goes back to the stove.
“What are you making?” I ask, sliding into a chair.
“Eggs,” he answers. “Toast. Bacon.”
“Bacon,” I repeat, impressed. “So you’re not just a scary man. You’re a scary man who feeds his… client.”
He flicks a glance at me. “Eat.”
I swear he can turn one word into a command that makes my spine tingle.
“Yes, sir,” I tease lightly.
Jack’s shoulders go still for half a second. Then, without turning around, he says, voice low: “Don’t.”
My cheeks heat. “Sorry,” I mutter, taking a sip of coffee. It’s strong. Perfect. “Habit. My coping mechanism is flirting with danger.”
He finally turns, bringing a plate to the table. Eggs, bacon, toast. Like a truck stop breakfast, but somehow he makes it look like something out of a romance novel.
He sits across from me, posture alert even while eating—eyes flicking to windows, to the door, to the quiet beyond.
I take a bite of bacon and almost moan. “Oh my God.”
Jack’s brow lifts slightly. “It’s bacon.”
“It’s perfect bacon,” I correct. “Crispy but not burnt. Salty but not… aggressively salty. How are you good at everything?”
His mouth twitches. “I’m not.”
“You caught cupcakes midair.”
“Practice.”
“You danced like you were born in boots.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“You made perfect bacon.”
He meets my eyes, and something in his gaze warms just a fraction. “Eat, Stella.”
I do, because the last thing I need is to argue with a man who can bench-press the entire kitchen.
The quiet stretches comfortably for a few minutes—just the clink of fork against plate, the hum of the refrigerator. It almost feels normal.
Almost.
Then I set my fork down and the question that’s been sitting in my throat all night finally pushes out.
“Have they found… them?” I ask softly. “The men. Whoever did this.”
Jack’s gaze sharpens—not at me, but at something in his own head. “Not yet.”
My stomach tightens. “So… we don’t know who.”
“No,” he says. “But we’ll know more soon. Grayson’s got people working it. Wyatt too.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
Jack watches me for a beat like he can see fear creeping around behind my eyes. “You’re safe here.”
I nod, but the fear isn’t about the cabin. It’s about the why.
Why me?
I’m not wealthy. I’m not famous. I’m not married to a billionaire with enemies. I’m just… Stella Hart. Kindergarten teacher. Cupcake enthusiast. Professional teddy bear rescuer.
“Why would anyone target me?” I blurt, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I don’t— I don’t have anything. I don’t have enemies. I don’t even have parking tickets.”
Jack’s jaw tightens. “Sometimes it’s not about enemies.”
I blink. “Then what is it about?”
His eyes hold mine. “Opportunity. Leverage. Someone trying to send a message.”
“To who?” I whisper. “Wyatt?”
“Could be,” he says. “Could be Lone Star. Could be someone you don’t remember.”
My chest tightens. “I’m… very memorable.”
Jack’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile and can’t. “You are.”
My heart does a stupid flutter. Then fear pulls it back down. “What are we doing today?”
Jack pushes his plate aside and shifts like he’s switching into mission mode. “We lay low.”
I frown. “Lay low. Like… hide.”
“Like rest,” he corrects. “Like don’t be predictable. Like stay where I can control variables.”
“I’m not a variable,” I mutter.
Jack’s gaze lifts, calm but firm. “Yes, you are.”
I huff. “Love that for me.”
Jack stands, taking his plate to the sink, then checks the window again. “Today, you work. You plan lessons. You keep your mind busy. I keep you safe.”
I blink. “You want me to… do lesson plans while you patrol this cabin like a bear?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him. “Do you know anything about kindergarten lesson plans?”
He glances at me. “No.”
“Then you’re about to learn,” I say, standing. “Because if I’m stuck here, I’m not wasting a day. Tomorrow I have to teach.”
Jack’s gaze turns hard. “Tomorrow I’m going with you.”
I stop short. “You’re going to—what?”
“I’m going with you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. “I’ll be on the school grounds.”
“I can’t bring a bodyguard to school,” I whisper, horrified. “The parents will riot. Principal Hanover will call the superintendent. Someone will make a Facebook post.”
Jack’s eyes don’t change. “Do you want to be alive to read the Facebook post?”
My mouth opens. Closes.
Damn him.
He softens his voice slightly. “We’ll do it discreet. I won’t disrupt. But I’m not letting you walk into a predictable routine without me.”
I rub my forehead. “This is insane.”
“It’s reality,” he says. “And you don’t get to downplay it.”
I glare at him. “Stop using my own words against me.”
Jack’s mouth twitches. “No.”
The rest of the day is… weirdly domestic.
We exist in the same space like a couple without any of the couple privileges.
Jack checks the perimeter every hour. He walks the property line like he’s counting trees and plotting a war. He checks locks. He checks windows. He listens like the wind might whisper names.
I sit at the table with my laptop, trying to pretend my normal life still exists.
Lesson plans don’t care that I’m in a safe house.
Kindergarteners will still need to know their letters. They will still need to cut paper hearts. They will still ask questions like “Why does the moon follow me?” and “Can I marry my dog?”
I try to focus. I really do.
But every time Jack moves behind me—boots soft on the floor, his presence sliding past like heat—I lose my train of thought.
I’m working on a phonics game when he pauses behind my chair.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Saving the future,” I reply. “Also teaching them the letter B.”
Jack’s gaze drops to my screen. “Why does that look like a crime scene?”
“It’s a bee worksheet,” I say, offended. “Bees are important.”
“Bees sting.”
“Yes,” I say. “So do you, emotionally.”
Jack lets out a sound that might be a laugh if he wasn’t allergic to joy. He walks away again, and my skin stays warm where his attention lingered.
Later, he returns from a perimeter check and sets something on the table beside me.
A small folding knife.
My eyes widen. “Is that for… apples?”
“It’s for protection,” he says.
I stare at it, then up at him. “Jack—”
“Don’t,” he says, voice quiet. “Just keep it close.”
My throat tightens. “Okay.”
He watches me for a beat, then reaches over my shoulder and gently adjusts the angle of my chair—turning it slightly so I can see the front door and the windows.
It’s subtle. Practical.
It also makes my heart clench.
“You’re rearranging furniture for safety,” I murmur.
Jack’s gaze meets mine. “Yes.”
I whisper, “You’re intense.”
His eyes darken. “You’re worth it.”
My breath catches so hard I almost forget how to type.
He walks away again like he didn’t just say something that could ruin my life.
I stare at my laptop screen, but the words blur.
You’re worth it.
I don’t know how to be worth that.