9. Jon
NINE
Jon
The scent of roasted garlic mingles with the sautéing of onions—rich, warm, and grounding. My knife slices clean through the red pepper, the steady rhythm soothing—almost.
But tonight, peace is an illusion. My focus keeps drifting.
To her.
Aria moves barefoot across my kitchen like she belongs there.
Like this is her space too. Her hair’s down, wild and golden, tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves instead of that polished curtain she wears like armor.
She’s in jeans—my T-shirt hanging loose over her curves, brushing the tops of her thighs—and I can’t stop looking.
It does something to me. Primal. Possessive. She’s in my home, dressed in my clothes, cooking beside me like this is what we do every night.
“Stop staring,” she says, not even glancing up from the garlic she’s mincing.
“Hard not to,” I murmur, watching the smile tug at her lips. She doesn’t deny me the pleasure of it, just keeps chopping, precise and unfazed, like she doesn’t realize how easily she’s unraveling me.
I lean on the counter, arms crossed, letting my gaze linger. “Where’d you learn to handle a knife like that?”
“Boarding school in Switzerland. We had a chef who taught cooking classes on weekends.” She shrugs. “Dad thought it was ridiculous—his exact words were ‘ why learn to cook when you can pay someone to do it better?’ But I liked it.”
That small rebellion against her father’s expectations—it’s the first of many glimpses I’ll get tonight of the real Aria beneath the polished heiress exterior.
“What about you?” she asks. “You’re pretty handy in the kitchen yourself.”
“Mom’s influence. She refused to raise sons who couldn’t fend for themselves.” I reach past her for the olive oil, letting my body brush against hers. “She said no partner of mine should have to do everything.”
“Smart woman, your mom.” Aria leans into the contact, her body warm against mine.
“The smartest.” I press a kiss to her temple before stepping back to the stove. “Pour us some wine?”
“This place suits you.”
My new apartment is a far cry from the one I shared with Charlie and Brett—deliberately so. After they moved on and started building their life together, I needed something that was just mine. Something without memories haunting every corner.
“Feels good to have my own space again.” I stir the risotto, focusing on the smooth, creamy consistency forming.
She hands me a glass of wine, our fingers brushing. “I can see why. It’s very—you.”
“And what exactly is ‘me’?” I ask, curious about how she sees me.
Aria takes a thoughtful sip of wine, looking around the apartment. “Practical, but not austere. Comfortable, without being showy.” Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her glass. “Strong, steady, with unexpected depth.”
The way she says it—like she’s describing more than just my apartment—warms something in my chest.
“You’ve thought about this,” I say.
“I’ve thought about a lot of things.” She moves to the stove beside me, peering into the pot. “Including how good that risotto smells. What’s your secret?”
“Patience.” I stir slowly, methodically. “And knowing when to let things simmer.”
“Is that just for cooking, or life advice?” Her eyes catch mine, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Take it however you want.” I nudge her playfully with my shoulder.
We work in companionable silence for a while, the kitchen filling with the aromas of garlic, wine, and simmering rice. Outside the window, the city lights glitter against the darkening sky, a private universe of our own making.
“Tell me about growing up in Montana,” she requests, settling onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island. “You mentioned your grandfather taught you to track and hunt?”
“Yeah, he was old-school. Believed a man should know how to provide, how to read the land.” I smile at the memory.
“He’d take me out at dawn, show me how to spot broken twigs, disturbed soil, the signs most people miss.
Said it wasn’t just about hunting—it was about understanding your place in the world. ”
“And what place was that?”
“Part of something bigger. Not separate from nature, not above it. Just another link in the chain.” I add the last of the stock to the rice. “Those lessons came in handy later, in the military. The ability to observe, to really see what’s in front of you—it’s saved my life more than once.”
“Is that why you enlisted? To use those skills?”
I consider the question, wanting to give her an honest answer. “Partly. But mostly it was about service. Grandpa fought in Vietnam, Dad in Desert Storm. Service is in our blood.”
“But not forced?”
“No.” I shake my head. “They would’ve respected whatever path I chose. But the military felt right. I wanted to protect people, to stand between them and harm.”
“And that led you to the Guardians?”
“Eventually. After my second tour, I was recruited for special operations. The work was important, but—impersonal. Too much politics, too much distance between the mission and the people we were supposedly helping.” I stir the risotto one final time before turning off the heat.
“Guardian HRS is different. We see the direct impact of what we do. The people we help—they have faces, names, stories.”
“People like me,” she says softly.
“People like you.” Our eyes meet across the kitchen, and I clear my throat. “Dinner’s ready. Why don’t you grab the salad?”
We settle at the small dining table, knees brushing underneath. I’ve kept the setting simple—no fancy tablecloth or candles, just good food and better company. Still, Aria looks around with appreciation.
“This is nice.”
“It’s just dinner.”
“No, it’s—real.” She takes a bite of the risotto, closing her eyes briefly in appreciation. “My father’s idea of dinner is a seven-course meal with the correct wine pairing for each course, served by staff who’ve been instructed to remain practically invisible.”
“Sounds suffocating.”
“It is.” She takes a sip of wine. “Everything in his world has to be perfect, controlled. Including me.”
“Tell me about him.” I keep my tone casual, despite the surge of protectiveness I feel whenever she mentions her father. The man has always struck me as calculating, even during our brief interaction after Aria’s rescue. “What was it like growing up with Marcus Holbrook as your father?”
Aria’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. She sets it down, considering. “He wasn’t always—like he is now. After Mom died, something changed. He became obsessed with legacy, with control. Everything had to be perfect because she wasn’t there to see it.”
“How old were you when she passed?”
“Eight.” Her voice softens. “Young enough to forget details, old enough to miss her. Dad sent me to boarding school the following year. Said it was for the best education, but I think he couldn’t bear to see her in me every day.”
The casual cruelty of it—shipping off a grieving child—makes my jaw tighten.
“That must have been hard.”
“It was—lonely. But I adapted. Became exactly what was expected of me—perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect friends from perfect families.” She twirls her wine glass absently. “Perfect Aria, the ideal daughter, the flawless heiress.”
“Until the kidnapping.”
She nods. “Until then, I’d never really questioned my path. Graduate from Stanford, take an executive position at Holbrook Pharmaceuticals, marriage to someone with the right connections… It was all laid out.”
“And now?”
“Now I know what it feels like to truly be taken from your life. To be erased.” Her eyes meet mine, clear and determined. “I don’t want to follow his blueprint anymore. I want the freedom to choose my own path. Work that matters. People who see me, not just my father’s name or my trust fund.”
“Where do I fit into this new vision?” I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine.
“You don’t fit into my father’s plan at all.” A small smile curves her lips. “A security specialist with no Ivy League degree and no family connections? Dating his daughter? He’d have a coronary.”
“Is that why you haven’t told him about us?” I keep my tone neutral, no accusation.
“Partly.” She squeezes my hand. “And partly because until recently, I wasn’t entirely sure where we stood. Whether this was just... casual for you.”
“Aria, there’s nothing casual about how I feel about you.” I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
“Good to know.” The simple declaration visibly affects her, color rising in her cheeks.
“Is it?” I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. “Because it means eventually, we’re going to have to deal with your father.”
“I know. I need time to figure out how to make him understand that my life is my own.” Uncertainty shadows her eyes.
“We’ll figure it out together.” I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “No rush.”
The conversation shifts to lighter topics as we finish dinner.
As I clear our plates, Aria follows me into the kitchen, hip leaning against the counter as she finishes her wine.
“What about your missions? Did you ever worry you wouldn’t make it back?”
“Not really.” I consider the question while loading the dishwasher. “In the moment, there’s just the mission, the team. Fear comes later, when you have time to think.”
“That’s interesting.” She swirls the last of her wine. “The things that really scare us aren’t always what they should be.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning…” She sets her glass down, eyes finding mine. “Sometimes, I was more afraid of disappointing my father than I was of actual danger. How messed up is that?”
“Not messed up. Just human.” I close the dishwasher and straighten, wiping my hands on a towel.
“What about you?” Her voice softens. “What scares Jon when he’s not on a mission?”
The question catches me off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because the answer rises so immediately I can taste it. I move closer, drawn by something I can’t name.
“This,” I say simply, the word hanging between us.
“Define ‘ this .’” She doesn’t back away.