Heated Bodyguard Summer (Sunbreak Harbor Security #5)

1. Chapter 1

Kara

The Orlando heat clings to me along with the sweat I’ve worked up since I received the call from the security company.

I pull up in front of my house, just behind the police cruisers.

Red and blue lights flash across the neighboring houses through the front windows, throwing restless color across my entryway walls.

Two police cruisers sit parked along the curb, engines running. A security van blocks half of my driveway. And suddenly the reality of this no longer feels distant or abstract. Someone broke into my house.

I rush inside, feeling as if I can fix something that’s broken, but I don’t know what it is. One officer near the kitchen notices me immediately.

“Ms. Stone?”

I nod automatically, though my throat feels too tight to speak properly.

The officer softens his expression. “I’m Officer Delgado. I’m sorry you had to come home to this tonight.”

Home. The word barely fits anymore.

I slowly close the front door behind me and stare past him into the open-concept kitchen I spent almost three years designing down to the smallest detail. Copper cookware hangs above the marble island. The cookbook drafts I left are still stacked beside the espresso machine.

Nothing looks destroyed. One thing to be grateful for.

A second officer emerges from the hallway leading toward the bedrooms.

“We finished the sweep a while ago,” he says. “No sign anyone’s still inside.”

My pulse skips unpleasantly. Still inside.

I grip the strap of my bag tighter as I walk farther into the kitchen, eyes and ears on full alert. My nervous system is on overdrive. Every sound suddenly feels amplified inside the house. But that’s what I need to do … notice things. What has been taken?

The stool nearest the patio doors sits slightly crooked. One cabinet above the stove hangs partially open. And then my eyes land on the knife block beside the prep sink.

I stop cold. Every knife is there. Except one. A hollow feeling opens in my chest.

Officer Delgado notices immediately. “Ms. Stone?”

I step closer slowly, staring at the empty slot near the center of the block. My chef’s knife. The expensive Japanese one engraved with my initials. The one I use almost every single day.

“That knife is missing,” I whisper.

Both officers straighten immediately.

“Can you describe it for us?”

I nod automatically, but my mind already feels disconnected from my body somehow. Like I’m standing outside myself watching this happen to someone else.

Someone stood in my kitchen. They touched my things. Someone walked through my house while I smiled for cameras on set in the studio kitchen.

Officer Delgado writes something in a small notebook. “We’ll add it to the report.”

I barely hear him. Because now I’m staring toward the dark hallway beyond the kitchen. Toward my bedroom. My stomach twists hard.

“What exactly happened?” I finally ask.

The officers exchange a quick glance.

“There was no forced entry,” Delgado explains carefully. “Whoever entered the property disabled the alarm system sometime this afternoon.”

“That’s impossible.”

“That’s what the security company initially believed too.”

I stare at him. I spent a ridiculous amount of money on that alarm system after my streaming audience exploded last year. Cameras. Motion sensors. Smart locks. Reinforced entry points. The works. And somebody bypassed it anyway. A cold unease slowly creeps beneath my skin.

“How were you notified?” I ask.

Officer Delgado glances toward the security van outside before answering.

“Whoever entered the house disabled the main alarm system,” he says carefully. “But your security provider has a secondary monitoring feature tied to interior motion irregularities and system tampering.”

A cold knot tightens low in my stomach.

“They tripped a silent fail-over alert without realizing it,” he continues. “The monitoring center attempted to contact you first, then dispatched private security when they couldn’t reach anyone. Security arrived and contacted law enforcement.”

I stare at him.

“So someone knew enough to bypass the system…”

“But not enough to bypass all of it,” Delgado says.

That should make me feel better. Somehow, it doesn’t. All of this makes no sense. Most burglaries are messy. Fast. Opportunistic. This feels different and more personal.

The younger officer hesitates slightly before speaking again.

“There was one thing upstairs.”

Every muscle in my body tightens.

“What thing?”

“Your bedroom closet doors were open when patrol arrived. Is that normal?”

For one strange second, I can’t breathe.

“No, I’m sort of anal about everything being in its place. I’m sure they were closed when I left this morning.”

The officers keep talking after that. Security upgrades. Temporary patrol checks. Insurance documentation. Recommendations about staying elsewhere for a few nights while repairs are completed.

The words blur together. Because all I can think about is someone standing in my bedroom. Someone opening my closet. Someone moving through the most private parts of my life without me knowing.

By the time the officers finally leave, the house feels enormous around me. Too quiet and empty.

I stand alone in the kitchen, staring out toward the dark patio doors overlooking the pool. My reflection stares back at me in the glass.

I’m thirty-two years old. A celebrity chef and cookbook author. As of last year, I’m also now a streaming personality.

More than anything, I’m a woman who can cook for hundreds of people without blinking. And right now I can’t even force myself to walk upstairs alone.

My phone buzzes against the counter. It’s Vanessa. I answer immediately.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes. “I’ve been waiting for you to call me.”

“I’m okay,” I say automatically.

“You sound terrible.”

Because I am terrible. Exhausted. Embarrassed by how shaken I actually am.

Vanessa has known me since culinary school. Before television appearances and sponsorship deals. She’s been by my side as millions of people started watching me online.

“What did the police say?” she asks.

I lean against the marble island and close my eyes briefly. “That someone disabled my security system and wandered through my house like they owned the place.”

“Kara…”

“One of my chef knives is gone.”

Silence.

Then quieter, “Okay. I officially hate this.”

I let out a humorless laugh. The tension in my chest aches.

“You remember what I told you a few weeks ago?” Vanessa asks carefully.

“That I need a vacation?”

“You looked burned out before this happened.”

Burned out doesn’t even begin to cover it. The past six months have been nonstop. Filming. Travel. Interviews. Brand obligations. A cookbook deadline hanging over my head like a storm cloud. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night without waking up thinking about work.

“I can’t just disappear for two weeks,” I mutter.

“Yes, you can.”

“I have meetings Monday.”

“You also sound one inconvenience away from crying into a saucepan.”

Despite everything, I almost smile.

Vanessa softens her voice. “One of my wine suppliers owns a beach rental in this little town called Sunbreak Harbor. Quiet place. Barrier island. Mostly tourists and boat people this time of year.”

I stare toward the dark hallway again. The upstairs suddenly feels impossible.

“You already looked exhausted before this happened,” she continues. “Now somebody’s been inside your house, Kara. Go somewhere safe while they repair everything.”

Safety is what I secretly crave, but seems out of reach. Because right now I don’t feel safe at all. Especially not here.

“I already emailed you the listing,” Vanessa says gently. “Just look at it before you say no.”

I grab my tablet from my bag and pull up email. The rental photos appear immediately. White coastal cottage. Private dune access. Large chef’s kitchen. Soft gauzy curtains drifting near open windows. A wraparound porch overlooking sea grass and blue water beyond.

Everything about it looks calm, sunny and peaceful. It looks happy. Suddenly, the idea of staying in this house another night feels impossible.

A man in a charcoal security polo steps through the still-open front door a few minutes later carrying a slim tablet beneath one arm. Mid-forties maybe. Calm, polished, expensive watch. The kind of man trained to speak carefully during expensive disasters.

“Ms. Stone?” he asks gently. “I’m Daniel Mercer with Sentinel Protective.”

Of course, the company sends someone immediately. I pay them enough.

He offers a professional handshake, though his expression tightens slightly when he takes in my face.

“I’m very sorry this happened.”

Officer Delgado nods toward him. “Mr. Mercer’s team handled the initial response after the fail-over alert triggered.”

Mercer glances toward the hallway leading upstairs. “If you’re comfortable, I’d like to walk the property with you and document anything disturbed before we secure the house for the night.”

Comfortable? There’s not a single part of me that feels comfortable anymore. But I nod anyway because I need to know. I need to see it for myself.

Mercer keeps a respectful distance as we head upstairs. The second-floor hallway feels colder than usual somehow, despite the air-conditioning humming softly overhead.

My bedroom door stands partially open. I stop walking.

Every instinct in my body suddenly screams at me to turn around.

Mercer notices immediately. “Would you prefer I check first?”

Humiliation burns hot in my chest.

“No,” I say too quickly. “I’m fine.”

I’m obviously not fine. Still, I force myself forward.

The bedroom looks mostly untouched at first glance. Cream-colored bedding neatly arranged. Decorative pillows still in place. Vanity lights glow softly beside the bathroom entrance. It truly looks too normal. That’s what makes my skin crawl. Because someone stood in here. Someone I don’t know.

Mercer moves quietly through the room, scanning windows, locks, entry points with practiced efficiency while I drift toward the walk-in closet.

Both doors stand open. The sight shocks me. Closets are intimate somehow. Personal. More invasive than someone rifling through kitchen cabinets or office drawers.

I step inside slowly. Designer dresses hang in color order along the left wall. Shoes remain lined neatly beneath the shelving system. Jewelry drawer closed.

Then I notice the bureau with two drawers sitting partially open. My pulse immediately starts climbing again. I move closer carefully.

The first drawer contains lingerie and undergarments. Lace. Silk. Private things.

My stomach tightens violently.

The second drawer below it hangs open several inches too. I pull it wider with suddenly unsteady fingers. Inside are old photographs. Not framed publicity shots or magazine covers. Personal ones.

Childhood photos with my parents before the divorce.

Culinary school snapshots splattered with sauce and flour.

Polaroids from tiny kitchens back when nobody knew my name yet.

My grandmother teaching me how to braid bread dough in her small Georgia kitchen.

These are all things no stranger should ever touch.

A chill spreads slowly through me.

Mercer notices my expression immediately. “Ms. Stone?”

I stare down at the disturbed stack of photographs. Someone went through these. Not quickly either. Carefully. Like they wanted to know me.

“I don’t think this was random,” I whisper.

The room goes still behind me.

Mercer’s voice lowers slightly. “What makes you say that?”

I look down at the open drawer again. Because nobody breaks into a house to look at family photographs. And suddenly the house doesn’t just feel violated. It feels watched.

“I’m going to recommend a full system review,” he says quietly. “Panel replacement, lock re-coding, additional perimeter coverage, and expanded interior monitoring.”

I fold my arms tightly across my stomach. “How long?”

“For the upgrades?” He exhales lightly. “A few days minimum. Possibly longer depending on how extensive you want the retrofit.”

Retrofit. The word makes my house sound damaged beyond repair. Maybe it is.

Mercer steps back out of the closet, giving me room to breathe again.

“We can also arrange overnight security coverage temporarily.”

My eyes drift once more to the partially open closet doors. Someone stood here and touched my things. They looked through pieces of my life as if they belonged to them. The thought crawls beneath my skin.

“I don’t understand how this happened,” I admit quietly.

Mercer’s expression remains professional, but I catch the hesitation before he answers.

“High-profile individuals attract attention, Ms. Stone.”

High-profile individuals. Such a clean corporate phrase for something that suddenly feels terrifyingly personal.

“I’m a chef,” I say, almost defensively.

“You’re also recognizable,” he replies gently. “You have a large online presence, public appearances, filming schedules, interviews. People become familiar with routines.”

The way he says it sends another chill through me.

Familiar with routines. Like someone has been watching mine.

Mercer glances toward the bedroom windows before returning his attention to me. “Until we know more, I strongly recommend that you avoid staying here alone.”

Something inside me instantly resists the suggestion. This is my house. My space. My career built this place. I shouldn’t have to leave because somebody scared me.

“I’ll be fine,” I say automatically.

Mercer doesn’t argue. Honestly, that almost makes it worse.

Instead, he asks calmly, “Do you feel comfortable sleeping here tonight?”

The question lands like a physical blow. Because my immediate answer is no. I imagine lying awake listening to every creak of the house. Every shifting shadow beyond the windows. Wondering whether someone memorized the floor plan while I was gone. I’m sure I will wonder whether they’ll come back.

My throat tightens painfully. And suddenly I realize I haven’t once looked directly at the darkened corners of the bedroom since we walked inside. Mercer notices the change in my expression immediately.

“We can have someone remain outside the property overnight,” he offers carefully. “But sometimes after an incident like this, temporary relocation gives clients peace of mind while security improvements are completed.”

Clients. Another detached word. But beneath it, I hear the truth anyway. You don’t feel safe here anymore. The awful part is… he’s right.

I look around my beautiful bedroom again. The soft lighting. The expensive furniture. The neatly made bed I suddenly want absolutely nothing to do with.

This house has always been the reward for years of overwork and impossible schedules. Tonight it feels like a stage somebody else has already walked across.