Page 26 of Saving Jennifer
They practiced with the unloaded gun, Noah adjusting her stance when she shifted, showing her the proper way to hold her arm and hand until her form looked right. Then he loaded the Glock and stepped back, ignoring the small pang of loss when he was no longer touching her.
“Remember what I showed you,” he said. “Breathe, aim, squeeze.”
Jennifer’s first shot went wide, as he’d expected. Her second was closer.
“You’re anticipating the recoil. Try again, but this time, don’t flinch before you fire.”
Her third shot hit the outer ring of the target, and a pleased smile curved her lips. Something warm unfurled in Noah’s chest at the sight of her happiness.
“Better,” he encouraged. “Now adjust your stance—feet a little wider apart.”
Noah watched as Jennifer emptied the magazine, reloaded, and fired again. With each round, her confidence grew, her stance becoming more natural, her aim more precise. By their fourth magazine, she was consistently hitting the center of the target.
“Again,” Noah instructed, handing her a freshly loaded magazine. “This time, imagine the target is moving toward you.”
Jennifer nodded, the determination in her eyes reminding Noah why she’d had the courage to turn on the Amirs in the first place. She raised the gun, her stance perfect now, and fired six rounds in rapid succession. Five hit the center mass of the target.
“Good,” Noah said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “One more time, but now I want you to fire two to the chest, one to the head.”
Jennifer hesitated for just a moment before nodding. She raised the gun again, and Noah could see her mentally walking through the steps he’d taught her. Breathe. Aim. Squeeze.
Two shots struck the center of the target’s chest. The third hit squarely between the eyes.
A strange mixture of pride and sadness washed over Noah. She was a natural—focused, determined, precise. She’d never wanted this life, never asked to be thrust into a world where these skills might mean the difference between life and death. Yet here she was, adapting, surviving, refusing to be a victim.
“That’s enough for today,” Noah said softly.
They cleaned up in silence, the weight of what they’d been preparing for hanging heavy between them. As they walked back to the cabin, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the clearing, Noah allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, meeting her under different circumstances. A world where she wasn’t a witness, and he wasn’t her protector. A world where the ghosts of his past didn’t whisper warnings every time he thought about touching her.
After a simple dinner of canned stew heated over the cabin’s ancient stove, Noah found Jennifer on the porch again, staring out at the darkening forest. He joined her, two glasses of whiskey in hand. It was a small indulgence, but one they both needed after the day’s training.
He offered her the glass. “To getting through today.”
Jennifer accepted it, her fingers brushing his in the exchange. “And seven more to go.”
They drank in companionable silence, the whiskey burning a warm path down Noah’s throat. Night settled around them, stars appearing in the vast sky overhead. Out here, miles from the nearest neighbor, the brilliant lights from above a monument to creation’s greatness.
“Can I ask you something?” Jennifer’s voice was soft in the darkness.
Noah turned to look at her, wondering what she saw when she looked at him. A protector? A weapon? A man?
“Of course.”
“What happened? The scar, I mean.”
Instinctively, Noah’s fingers traced the jagged scar through his left eyebrow—a memento from a day he’d spent years trying to forget. “Kabul. Special Forces. It happened on my last tour of duty. Hit by shrapnel.” The words tasted bitter, memories rising unbidden. The unbearable heat. The ambush. The decisions that cost lives.
Noah waited for the usual follow-up questions, prepared to deflect as he always did. But Jennifer simply nodded, something in her eyes telling him she understood more than he’d said.
“Is that why you became a bodyguard?”
A hollow laugh escaped before Noah could stop it. “I didn’t have plans to become anything but a hermit. I spent all my time up here in the mountains, allowing myself to heal. But my family didn’t really like me self-isolating, so they showed up more and more frequently, pulling me back into what they’d consider a normal life.” He took another sip of the whiskey before continuing. “Uncle Gator called me, had me do a job. Investigative work, because I’d done some before. I’m good at it,” he said, the irony not lost on him. “I ended up helping his sons keep some people safe, and discovered I have a knack for sensing danger, an ability to keep people safe.”
Without warning, Jennifer reached out, her fingers brushing against the back of his hand where it rested on the porch railing. The contact sent a jolt through Noah’s system, more potent than any adrenaline rush he’d experienced in combat.
He should pull away. He knew better than to allow this to happen. Attachment was dangerous. Feelings compromised judgment, and compromised judgment got people killed. Yet when Jennifer’s touch lingered, tentative and questioning, Noah found himself turning his hand over, palm up. An invitation he had no right to extend.
Her hand slid into his, small but strong, her fingers intertwining with his as naturally as if they’d done this a thousand times. Noah’s chest tightened, a forgotten warmth spreading through him.