"Is this normal for ex CIA operatives? This level of preparation?"
"The ones who live long enough to retire? Yes."
There's something in his tone that makes me think there's more to the story. More to why he needs this fortress in the mountains, why he's prepared for every contingency, why he lives alone with enough security to protect a small country.
"What happened, Finn?" I ask quietly. "What made you like this?"
He stops walking, turning to face me with eyes that have gone hard as granite. "Like what?"
"Ready for war in the middle of peace."
For a moment, I think he's going to shut me down completely. But then something shifts in his expression, a hairline crack in the armor he wears so completely.
"I made mistakes," he says finally. "In the field. People died who shouldn't have."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was a long time ago."
But the way he says it tells me it wasn't nearly long enough ago. That the ghosts of those mistakes still walk with him, still wake him in the night, still drive him to build fortresses against enemies both real and remembered.
"Is that why you took my case?" I ask. "Redemption?"
His eyes narrow. "I took your case because Frank asked me to and the money was good."
"Just business then."
"Just business."
But we both know it's a lie. I saw his face when he found me in that house, when he realized how close my stalker had come. I saw the fury in his eyes, the protectiveness that went beyond professional obligation.
I wonder what he'd do if I called him on it. If I stepped closer and told him I see through the walls he's built. If I admitted that something about him pulls at me in ways I can't explain and don't want to resist.
But before I can find the courage, he turns and continues walking, pointing out security features and escape routes with renewed professional detachment.
The moment, whatever it was, has passed.
We spend the rest of the morning completing our tour of the property, Finn in full security expert mode, me trying to absorb all the information while pretending I'm not hyperaware of his every movement, his every expression, and the way his hand occasionally touches the small of my back to guide me along a narrow trail.
By the time we return to the cabin, the sun is high overhead and my head is spinning with security protocols and emergency procedures.
"That's enough for today," Finn says as we step onto the deck. "You need time to process."
"Is there a quiz later?" I attempt a joke to lighten the tension that's been building between us all morning.
"No. But your life might depend on remembering what I've shown you."
The blunt reminder of why I'm here lands like a punch to the gut. This isn't a vacation. This isn't a romantic getaway with a mountain man fantasy. This is life and death.
"Sorry," I say quietly. "I shouldn't joke about it."
"It's a normal response." His voice softens slightly. "Humor as a defense mechanism against fear. I've seen it in combat zones."
"And thats what my life’s become, right? A combat zone?"
"Until they catch him? Yes."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm sun. "I hate this. I hate that he's taken my sense of safety. That he's got me running scared across the country. Hate that this is my life."
"I know." Finn moves closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, but not touching me. "But you're not running scared, Nova. You're making a tactical retreat. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Running scared is reactive. Panicked. A tactical retreat is strategic. Controlled. It's not about fear, it's about choosing the battlefield where you have the advantage."
"And this is that battlefield? Your mountain?"
"Yes." His voice drops lower, edged with something primal that sends a shiver down my spine. "Here, we have every advantage. Here, you're protected."
"By you."
"By me."
The way he says it, so simple and absolute, breaks something open inside me. Two words that contain a promise more powerful than any I've ever been given.
Before I can think better of it, I reach out and place my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat strong and steady beneath my palm.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For making me feel safe again."
His body goes completely still beneath my touch, his eyes darkening to the color of a storm at sea. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then his hand comes up to cover mine, warm and calloused and so much larger.
"Nova." Just my name, but the way he says it makes it sound like both a warning and a plea.
"I know," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm acknowledging. The professional boundaries we're blurring? The danger of forming attachments in a crisis? The simple impossibility of anything between a pop star and her bodyguard living on a mountain?
All of it, probably.
His other hand rises to my face, hovering just shy of touching my cheek, as if he's fighting some internal battle about whether to cross this line.
"This is a bad idea," he says, his voice rough.
"Probably."
"You're my client."
"I know."
"I'm supposed to protect you."
"You are protecting me."
His thumb finally brushes my cheekbone, so gentle it almost undoes me. "Not from me."
"I don't need protection from you."
The words hang between us, honest and dangerous. His eyes search mine, looking for something. Doubt, maybe. Or fear. But there's none to find.
Just want, pure and simple, and terrifying in its intensity.
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and I know he's going to kiss me. Know it with a certainty that steals my breath and makes my heart race.
Then his SAT phone rings, shrill and insistent, shattering the moment.
Finn steps back immediately, professional mask sliding back into place as he reaches for the phone on his belt. I stand frozen, caught between disappointment and relief, my body still humming with unfulfilled anticipation.
"McKenna," he answers, voice betraying nothing of what just happened between us. He listens for a moment, his expression giving nothing away. "I understand. Send the file. We'll review it."
He ends the call and turns back to me, all business now, as if we weren't seconds away from crossing a line that can't be uncrossed.
"Frank?" I ask, trying to match his professional tone.
"Yes. The FBI has identified a suspect. They're sending over the file now."
Just like that, reality comes crashing back. The stalker. The danger. The reason I'm here in this cabin with this man who makes me feel things I shouldn't.
"Who is it?" I ask, wrapping my arms around myself again.
"They don't have a name yet, just a physical description from security footage they've enhanced. White male, thirties, approximately six feet tall. They're running facial recognition now."
"So they're close to finding him?"
"They're closer than they were yesterday." He doesn't sugar coat it, doesn't offer false reassurances, and I appreciate that more than he knows.
"What happens when they find him?"
"They arrest him. He faces federal charges for stalking, breaking and entering, as well as making threats. He goes to prison for a long time."
"And I go back to my life."
"Yes."
I nod, trying to look appropriately relieved at the prospect. But the truth is, part of me doesn't want to go back. Part of me wants to stay here in this mountain sanctuary with this complicated, fascinating man who sees the real me beneath the celebrity facade.
"Let's go inside," Finn says, nodding toward the cabin. "We can review the file when it comes through."
I follow him inside, hyper aware of the distance he's keeping between us now. The almost kiss hangs in the air, unacknowledged but impossible to forget.
We spend the next hour in professionally distant silence, Finn at his laptop reviewing security footage from my LA home, me pretending to read a book while actually watching him over the pages.
The tension between us is palpable. I should be relieved that the phone rang when it did. That we didn't cross that line. That our relationship remains professional, uncomplicated by feelings neither of us can afford right now.
I should be relieved, but I'm not.
Because now I know what I was missing before. The way his hand feels in my hair. The heat in his eyes when he looks at me like I’m precious instead of a mere responsibility. The possibility of what might happen if we both stop fighting whatever this is between us.
And that knowledge is dangerous in ways my stalker could never be.
Finn looks up suddenly, catching me staring at him. For a brief moment, I see the same heat in his eyes, the same want that must be visible in mine.
Then it's gone, banked behind professional control, and he turns back to his laptop without a word.
But it was there. It is there. And sooner or later, that control is going to break.
I'm counting on it.
Night falls over the mountain, bringing with it a silence so profound it feels like a physical presence. No traffic noise, no distant sirens, no hum of civilization. Just the whisper of wind through trees and the occasional call of a night bird.
After dinner, we settle in the living room, the fireplace casting dancing shadows across the walls. I'm curled on the couch with another of Finn's books, while he sits in the chair across from me, cleaning a gun.
I find it oddly comforting. Finn's careful attention to the weapon that might someday stand between me and harm.
"Can I ask you something?" I say, setting down my book.
He looks up, hands continuing their work without needing his eyes. "You can ask."
"Before, on the deck... what would have happened if the phone hadn't rung?"
His hands are still on the gun. "You know what would have happened."
"I want to hear you say it."
His eyes meet mine, direct and unwavering. "I would have kissed you."
The simple admission sends heat rushing through me. "And then what?"