I've never thought about it that way, but there's truth in her observation that I'm not entirely comfortable with.
"The pasta's ready," I say instead of answering. "Plates are in that cabinet."
She lets me evade the question, getting plates while I finish the sauce. We work around each other with surprising ease, as if we've done this dance before.
"Where should we eat?" she asks, holding the filled plates.
"Deck's nice this time of day. It has a view of the valley."
I grab a bottle of wine and two glasses, leading her through the French doors onto the wraparound deck that offers panoramic views of the mountains. The sun is starting to lower toward the peaks, bathing everything in golden light.
"Oh my god," she breathes, taking in the vista. "This is incredible."
"It's why I built here." I set our drinks on the table and pull out a chair for her. "No matter what kind of day I've had, this view puts it in perspective."
She sits, still staring at the mountains with genuine wonder in her expression. It's probably the most authentic reaction I've seen from her yet.
"I could wake up to this view every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of it," she says.
"That's the plan."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the distant call of birds and the soft clinking of forks against plates. Nova eats with appreciation, but not the delicate picking I expected from a Hollywood star obsessed with her figure. Another stereotype she defies.
"This is delicious," she says between bites. "You're full of surprises, Finn McKenna."
"It's just pasta."
"Made from scratch in a kitchen that belongs in Architectural Digest, by an ex-CIA operative who lives alone on a mountain." She smirks. "Not exactly fitting the stereotypical bachelor profile."
"I'm not a typical anything."
"Clearly." She sips her wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. "So what happens now?"
"Now we wait. I stay in contact with Frank. He works with the FBI. When they have something, we'll know."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, you stay here. Safe. Off the grid. We’ll establish routines, and security protocols. You learn the property, the emergency procedures."
"Sounds exciting," she says dryly.
"Exciting is the last thing we want."
She sets down her fork, meeting my eyes directly. "How long, Finn? Realistically. How long am I going to be here?"
I consider lying, giving her some optimistic timeline that will make her feel better. But she deserves the truth.
I shrug. "Could be weeks. Could be months. The FBI will do their job, but this kind of investigation takes time."
"Months," she repeats, her expression unreadable. "Living here. With you."
"That's the situation."
"And what happens when you get tired of having a pop star invading your sanctuary?"
There's vulnerability beneath the question that catches me off guard. As if she's genuinely concerned about being a burden.
"I took the job," I say simply. "I knew what it entailed."
"That's not an answer." She presses.
"I won't get tired of it."
She raises an eyebrow. "No? Most people can't stand being around celebrities for more than a few hours. We're notoriously high maintenance."
"Are you high maintenance, Nova?"
"I can be."
"Then be high maintenance. I've handled worse."
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest that I don't want to examine too closely.
"You're not what I expected," she says.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more... intimidating. Less..." She gestures vaguely.
"Less what?"
"I don't know. Human."
The admission surprises me. Most clients see me as a weapon, shield, and means to an end. Not a person with needs and flaws and a life outside their problems.
"I'm plenty human," I say, not sure why it matters that she knows this.
"I'm starting to see that." Her smile is soft, almost intimate in the fading light. "It's nice."
We finish our meal as the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. I find myself watching Nova more than the view, the way the light plays across her features, highlighting cheekbones that have launched a thousand magazine covers.
But it's not her beauty that draws my attention. It's the way she seems to shed layers with each passing hour. The carefully constructed pop star giving way to something more real, more vulnerable. More ‘human’ as she put it.
It's dangerous, this glimpse behind the curtain. Dangerous because it makes her more than a client. More than a responsibility. It makes her a person I'm starting to genuinely want to protect, not because I'm being paid to, but because something in me recognizes something in her.
Two people lost in the identities they've created. Two people seeking something real to hold onto.
"I should check the perimeter before it gets dark," I say, standing abruptly. I need distance, perspective. "Security protocols."
She looks up at me, something knowing in her expression. "Of course. Security first."
"Always."
I collect our plates, avoiding her eyes. "Make yourself at home. The living room has books, and an entertainment system. WiFi password is on the fridge, but don't use any accounts that could be traced back to you. No social media, no emails to friends, nothing that puts a location pin on you."
"I know the drill." She stands, stretching in a way that makes her shirt ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above her jeans. "I'll just grab a book and relax. It's been a long day."
I nod and head inside, depositing the dishes in the sink before grabbing my security tablet and jacket. I need air. Space. Clarity.
Outside, I walk the perimeter of the property methodically, checking sensors and cameras more from habit than necessity. The system is state of the art, designed by a paranoid ex-operative with too much time and money on his hands.
No one gets within a mile of this place without me knowing.
So why do I feel so on edge?
The answer is waiting inside my cabin, probably curled up with one of my books, making herself at home in my space like she belongs there.
But there's something about Nova that defies my usual need for emotional distance. Something genuine beneath the celebrity veneer that calls to something equally genuine in me.
It's a complication I didn't anticipate and don't want. Complications get people killed in my line of work. Emotional attachments cloud judgment, slow reaction times, create vulnerabilities that can be exploited.
I reach the eastern edge of the property, looking out over the valley below as the last light fades from the sky. Stars are beginning to appear, brilliant and clear in the mountain air, far from city lights.
This view always centers me. Reminds me of my place in the world. Small but significant. Part of something larger than myself.
I take a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs, clearing my head.
Professional distance. I need to maintain professional distance. Nova is a client, a responsibility, nothing more. The fact that she's beautiful, perceptive, and surprisingly genuine doesn't change that.
The fact that something in me recognizes something in her doesn't change that.
When I return to the cabin, I find Nova curled on the couch with one of my first edition Hemingways open in her lap. She's changed into lounge pants and a soft sweater that looks worn and comfortable, nothing like the designer clothes I expected.
Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looks younger this way. More vulnerable. More real.
"Everything secure?" she asks, looking up from her book.
"Always is." I hang my jacket by the door. "Finding everything you need?"
"Yes, thank you." She holds up the book. "Hope you don't mind. I saw your collection and couldn't resist. First edition?"
"Yes. I have a thing for Hemingway."
"Men with guns and complicated feelings about women?" Her smile is teasing. "I never would have guessed."
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitch upward. "There's more to Hemingway than that."
"I know. I’m just teasing. There’s also the pursuit of what's true. The rejection of anything false or sentimental." She closes the book, running her fingers over the cover. "The ideal of living authentically even when it hurts."
Her understanding of Hemingway surprises me. Most people focus on the machismo, the bullfighting and warfare. They miss the deeper themes of authenticity and truth that drew me to his work.
"You've read him," I say.
She nods. "I was an English Lit major before the music took over. I've read everything." She sets the book aside. "Though I have to admit, I prefer Fitzgerald. Something about beautiful, doomed people and impossible dreams speaks to me."
"Fitting."
She tilts her head, studying me. "Was that a compliment or an insult, Mr. McKenna?"
"Neither. Just an observation."
"Well, observe away. It's nice to be seen as something other than a voice and a body for a change."
There's no self-pity in her tone, just a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of her reality. It makes me want to know more about what her life is actually like, beyond the glossy magazine covers and carefully curated social media.
"Must be strange," I say, taking a seat in the chair across from her. "Having everyone think they know you when they don't know you at all."
"Says the man who lives alone on a mountain to avoid people knowing him."
"Touché."
She smiles, tucking her feet under her. "We're not so different, you and I. Both hiding from the world in our own ways."
"The difference is no one's hunting you through the pages of People magazine."
Her smile fades. "No. They're just writing 'Soon' on my mirror in blood."
Shit. That came out wrong. But maybe it's necessary. A reminder of professional boundaries when everything about this evening has felt too comfortable, too domestic.
"We'll find the bastard," I say, in lieu of the other stupid things running through my brain about attraction and her personality. "Frank's the best at what he does. And the FBI has resources we don't."
"The police have been making that same promise for months, though."
I look eyes on hers ignoring every instinct screaming to avoid her trance. "If they don’t find this asshole, then I will."
The words come out with more intensity than I intended, edged with a promise of violence that surprises even me. I'm not usually so personally invested in outcomes.
Nova hears it too. Her eyes widen slightly, and she leans forward, closing some of the distance between us.
My eyes flick to her plump lips then back to her eyes. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss her right now, and the fact that the thought even crosses my mind tells me, I’ve lost the fucking plot. I force my eyes to the ground.
"I should turn in," she says after a moment. "It's been a long day."
"Of course." I straighten, keeping the fireplace between us. "Towels are in the bathroom cabinet, and there are extra blankets in the closet if you get cold. Mountain nights can be chilly even in summer."
She stands, stretching in a way that's entirely unselfconscious, entirely natural. Nothing like the calculated movements of a woman who knows she's being watched, or how the slight sliver of skin that peeks through affects me when the hem of her sweater raises ever so sightly.
"Goodnight, Finn." She moves toward the stairs, then pauses, looking back at me. "Thank you. For everything."
"Just doing my job."
"No." She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "I don't think that's all this is. Not anymore."
Before I can respond, she's gone, disappearing up the stairs, leaving me with the unsettling feeling that she's right.
This stopped being just a job the moment she walked into my kitchen and started chopping vegetables like she belonged there.
The moment she looked at me, she saw a human being instead of a weapon.
The moment I looked at her and saw a beautiful and funny woman instead of a mere client.
I stare into the flames, trying to reclaim the professional distance I need to do this job right.
But all I can think about is the way she smiled when she saw the mountains for the first time.
The way she handled my chef's knife with easy confidence.
And the way she curled on my couch with my book like she's been here a hundred times before.
Like she belongs here.
And that's the most dangerous thought of all.