Page 9 of Saving Jennifer
“After dark,” Gator said. “Meantime, I suggest you pack light. The apartment ain’t exactly spacious.”
Jennifer thought about the few possessions she’d accumulated during her stay in America. After Tarik’s death and the Amir family’s systematic destruction of her life both here and in Paris, she’d arrived in New Orleans with little more than a suitcase and her portfolio. Now even that felt like too much to carry.
“I’ll need my design materials,” she said firmly. These were non-negotiable—the sketches and fabric swatches were all that remained of her once-thriving career.
“Of course,” Noah said before Gator could object. “I’ll make sure there’s room.”
Gator pushed himself to his feet with the agility of a much younger man. “I’ll head back and make sure the place is ready. The car will come for you at nine.” He fixed Jennifer with a stern look. “Remember—”
“No calls, no internet, no contact with anyone,” Jennifer finished for him. “I know the drill by now, Mr. Boudreau.”
Gator’s weathered face softened slightly. “Almost over, little lady. You just gotta hang tough a little longer.”
After he left, silence settled over the house again. Jennifer moved to the kitchen, needing something to do with her hands. “Tea?” she offered, filling the kettle.
“Sure,” Noah replied, following her but maintaining that careful distance.
As she went through the motions of preparing tea, Jennifer found herself studying him from the corner of her eye. After days in close quarters, Noah was still something of an enigma. She knew he was former military, that he preferred black coffee in the morning and a single glass of whiskey at night. But the man himself remained a mystery.
“What will you do?” she asked suddenly. “After the trial? After…me?” Closing her eyes, she screwed up her face, unable to believe she’d asked the question. The words seemed to pop out before she could stop them, and now she stood with her back to him, hoping he couldn’t see the color flooding her cheeks. Drawing in a deep breath, she gently placed the kettle on the stove and turned to face him.
Noah looked up, surprise briefly crossing his features before the professional mask returned. “Guarding you was a personal favor for Gator. When this is all over, I’ll be heading back home to Tennessee.”
“Of course.” Jennifer busied herself with the teabags. “And I’ll…well, I’ll have to figure that out.”
Noah leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You could stay in New Orleans.”
The suggestion hung in the air between them, laden with unspoken possibilities. Jennifer focused on pouring the now hot water into mugs. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted. “I hate to admit it, but the city doesn’t hold fond memories. Too many ghosts.”
“There are ghosts everywhere,” Noah said softly. “Sometimes it’s just a matter of accepting the ones you can live with.”
Jennifer handed him a mug, their fingers brushing momentarily. The contact sent an unexpected warmth up her arm, and she quickly withdrew her hand. “Is that what you did?” she asked. “Moving to Tennessee? Were the ghosts here more than you could live with?”
Something shifted in his eyes—a brief glimpse of the pain he usually kept hidden. “Still working on it.”
In that moment, Jennifer saw past the protector to the man, and recognition flowed between them—two broken people trying to reassemble the pieces of themselves into something whole.
The moment broke when Noah’s phone buzzed. He checked it, his expression darkening.
“What is it?” Tension immediately coiled in her stomach.
“Just a precaution, but we need to move to the back of the house. Away from the windows.”
Fear—her constant companion these days—flared bright. “What’s happening?”
Noah’s hand rested lightly on the small of her back, guiding her toward the hallway. “Probably nothing. Security system picked up someone lingering on the street. Could be a neighbor, could be someone casing houses.”
“Or it could be them,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Noah didn’t contradict her. Instead, he led her to the small bedroom at the rear of the house that had been converted into a makeshift safe room—reinforced door, no windows, communication equipment. “Stay here,” he instructed, checking his weapon. “I’ll do a perimeter check.”
“Noah—” she began, then stopped, unsure what she even wanted to say.Be careful? Don’t leave me? Don’t get killed because of my mess?
He paused, looking back at her. Something in her expression must have communicated her fear, because his face softened.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised. “Lock this behind me.”
After he left, Jennifer secured the door as instructed, then sank onto the edge of the small cot. Her hands were trembling again, an involuntary response she’d been fighting for months. Ever since that day in Shiloh Springs, when Sheriff Rafe Boudreau confronted her, throwing accusations at her about what a despicable person she was to help a known abuser find the woman who’d risked her life, the life of her unborn child, to escape him. When she’d told the sheriff she hadn’t known about Tarik and what he’d done to Salem, it had been the truth. While she’d done her best to find Gabi Boudreau, and by extension Salem, she’d done it for money, because she’d been a different person then. The memory of her own naive confusion still burned. “But he just wants to talk to her,” she’d insisted. “He’s worried about his child.”