Page 12 of Saving Jennifer
Noah smiled slightly. “Touché.”
A burst of laughter from the street below drew their attention back to the window. A group of tourists was taking selfies in front of the club’s neon sign, arms around each other, faces flushed with alcohol and camaraderie.
“They have no idea,” Jennifer murmured, “how quickly it can all fall apart.”
Noah studied her profile, illuminated in the blue-red glow from the signs outside. Days of constant proximity had taught him her expressions, her habits, the slight crease between her brows that appeared when she was sketching, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when thinking. Little details he had no business noticing, yet couldn’t seem to stop cataloguing. “That’s why they can laugh,” he said. “Ignorance has its benefits.”
Jennifer turned to him, something vulnerable in her eyes. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to laugh like that again? Without looking over my shoulder?”
The question pierced something in Noah; some wall he’d carefully constructed around his own wounds. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing her arm. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next month. But yes.”
Her eyes widened slightly at the contact, but she didn’t pull away. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve seen it before. Victims who become survivors.” He’d seen it within himself, too, though he didn’t say it aloud. “You’re stronger than you think, Jennifer.”
She looked down at where his hand still rested on her arm, then back up to his face. Something shifted in the space between them, the professional distance narrowing, becoming something more complicated.
Noah slowly withdrew his hand, taking a step back. “You should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. Gator wants to do a walkthrough of the courthouse, go over security procedures.”
Jennifer nodded, seeming to accept the retreat to safer ground. “Of course. Always another procedure to learn.”
As she turned to go back to her room, Noah found himself speaking again. “Jennifer.”
She paused, looking back at him.
“I promise you’ll get through this. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
A sad smile touched her lips. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Noah.”
“I don’t.”
After she’d gone, closing her bedroom door softly behind her, Noah remained at the window, watching the street below with eyes that saw potential threats in every shadow. But his mind was on the woman in the next room, and the complication she represented.
Ten more days. Then he could return to his cabin in the Smoky Mountains, to the solitude he’d cultivated after his career in the military had imploded spectacularly. Back to his routine, his silence, his carefully ordered existence.
So why did the thought feel hollow?
Moving away from the window, Noah checked the locks on the door once more. The chaos of New Orleans had never appealed to him; too many people, too much noise, too many variables to control. He preferred the predictability of his mountain home, the rhythm of days measured by sunrise and sunset rather than court dates and protection details.
Yet something about Jennifer Baptiste had gotten under his skin. Perhaps it was recognition—he saw in her the same wary hypervigilance that had driven him to isolation after his own betrayal. Or perhaps it was something more basic, more human—the simple pull between two people who understood loss.
Either way, it was a complication he hadn’t planned for.
Noah settled into the armchair positioned to give him clear sightlines to both the door and Jennifer’s room, his weapon within easy reach. As the jazz from below mellowed into the late-night standards, he allowed himself to acknowledge the truth he’d been avoiding.
His world was already changing, whether he was ready or not. And the woman sleeping behind that door was the catalyst.
Ten more days.
For now, though, his job was clear. Keep her safe. Get her to court. Honor his promise.
The rest would have to wait.
CHAPTER FOUR
Soft jazz driftedup through the floorboards like smoke, coating Jennifer’s nerves with a temporary soothing balm. They’d rushed through New Orleans, landing in the French Quarter and settled into the new apartment earlier that evening. She’d gone to her room, trying to get some sleep, but it had proved impossible, so she’d come back out to the main living area.
She hadn’t bothered unpacking, because honestly, what was the point, they’d only have to move again. She knew in her gut this was simply another stop, another bump in the road, before they had to move again.