Chapter 2 #2
"My father decided I couldn't handle the truth about my own life." The anger sharpens. "Just like every other man who thinks they know what's best for me."
The words land harder than I intended. Boone's expression shifts, something flickering behind those ice blue eyes that might be understanding or might be annoyance. It's hard to tell with him.
"Your father wants you alive," Boone says quietly. "So do I. If that requires some... strategic omission to get you here safely, then that's a tactical decision I support."
"Strategic omission." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "That's a very pretty way of saying you both lied."
"Ms. Plummer—"
"Mara." I step toward him, close enough to see the individual threads of silver in his beard. "If I'm going to be trapped on this mountain with people who think they know what's best for me, the least you can do is use my name."
His jaw works. For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I wonder what he sees. The difficult client. The chaos agent. The woman who makes everything harder than it needs to be.
Or maybe he sees the same thing I see when I look in the mirror. Someone who's spent her whole life being underestimated, managed, controlled by people who claim to have her best interests at heart.
"Mara." My name sounds different in his voice. Lower. Rougher. Like he's tasting it. "Follow me to your cabin. We'll discuss protocols."
"Will those protocols include honesty?"
"They'll include whatever keeps you alive." He holds my gaze, unflinching. "Even if that makes you hate me."
He turns and walks out of the lodge.
I follow.
Because apparently that's what I do now. Follow Boone Garrett and pretend I'm not already obsessing over the way he says my name.
The cabin is nicer than I expected. Small but well built, with a lofted bedroom, a full bathroom, a kitchenette, and a living area with a wood burning stove. The windows offer views of the forest, and I can see another cabin about a hundred meters away, tucked into the tree line.
"That's my cabin." Boone nods toward it as he sets my bag by the door. "I'm close enough to respond to any alert within thirty seconds."
"Thirty seconds." I run my fingers along the rough hewn mantle above the stove. "You've timed it?"
"Multiple times. Different conditions." He moves through the space, checking windows, testing locks. "Day. Night. Snow. Rain. Average response time is twenty three seconds."
I sink onto the leather couch, watching him work. He's methodical about it, precise in a way that should feel clinical but instead feels strangely intimate. Like he's learning my space, cataloging every detail that might affect my safety.
"The windows are reinforced," he continues. "Break resistant glass. The door has a three point locking system. There's a panic button beside the bed and another in the bathroom. If you press either one, I'll be here before you can count to thirty."
"And if I press it by accident?"
"Then I'll be here before you can count to thirty." His eyes meet mine. "False alarms aren't a problem. Missed threats are."
I pull my legs up under me, getting comfortable despite myself. "You really take this seriously."
"I take your life seriously." He straightens from checking under the bed frame. "Everything else is negotiable."
The words hang in the air between us.
"My father." I pick at a thread on my sweater, not quite looking at him. "He really thinks someone is going to try to kill me."
Boone is quiet for a moment. Then he crosses to the couch and sits on the opposite end, closer than I expected but still maintaining distance.
"Your quantum encryption technology could destabilize existing security infrastructure worldwide.
Governments and corporations have spent billions on systems your work could render obsolete overnight. "
"I know what my work does."
"Then you know why people want to stop it." His voice is matter of fact, no dramatics. "You're not just valuable, Mara. You're in danger. To the right people, eliminating you is cheaper than competing with you."
Here it goes again. I know he’s speaking and in the back of my mind, I’m seething that my father hid this from me, and these people who know more about what’s going on in my life than I do.
But I can’t stop my brain from cataloging Boone's profile.
The strong nose, the set of his jaw, the way his hands rest on his thighs, completely still. Controlled even in moments of rest.
"How long have you known my father?"
The question surprises him. I see it in the slight tension that crosses his shoulders before he answers. "Richard and I served together briefly, years ago. Different units, overlapping deployment. He reached out to Deck when the threats against you escalated."
"And Deck assigned you to me."
"Yes."
"Why you specifically?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "Because I'm the best tactical planner on the team. Because I don't get distracted. Because your father asked for someone who would keep you safe even if you made that job difficult."
"Someone who wouldn't be charmed by my winning personality."
His mouth twitches. "Your words, not mine."
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Here's what I don't understand, Mr. Garrett. You've read my file. You know I don't follow rules. You know I make security details miserable. So why did you take this assignment? Why subject yourself to two weeks of me?"
He turns his head, and suddenly we're much closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the darker blue rings around his irises, the individual hairs in his beard, the small scar on his left cheekbone.
"Because your father looked me in the eye and told me his daughter was the most important person in his world." Boone's voice drops, rough and honest. "And I know what it means to lose someone you can't afford to lose. I won't let that happen to him."
My throat tightens.
Damn him. Damn him for being exactly the kind of man I've always wanted and never found. Controlled. Competent. Protective without being condescending.
Well. Maybe a little condescending. But in a way I want to argue with rather than run from.
"Six o'clock," I say softly. "Dinner at the lodge."
He nods, rising from the couch. The loss of his proximity leaves me cold despite the fire crackling in the stove.
"Six o'clock. I'll come get you at five fifty." He pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "And Mara?"
"Yes?"
"Don't leave this cabin without telling me first." His eyes hold mine, steady and absolute. "That's not me trying to control you. That's me trying to keep you alive long enough to hate me properly."
He's gone before I can respond.
I sit in the silence of my mountain prison, watching the door he disappeared through, and wonder when exactly I started hoping he'd stay.