“Wine?” I ask again, lifting my glass.
“Water’s fine, thanks.”
I fill a glass from the filtered tap and slide it across the counter. “You’re on duty?”
“Always.” He takes a sip, then sets it down carefully. “Did you do the renovation on this place?”
“No. Stella was in first grade when I moved so I searched for something turnkey.” I stir the potatoes, adjust the heat. “It was...a difficult time. The divorce, I mean. My lawyer thought I should stay in the marital home until everything was finalized, but I couldn’t. And my friend Dorian—” I gesture vaguely, “—he thought this place was too exposed. Corner lot, too many windows. But I liked it. It felt like mine. And it had been gutted. Total redesign. You couldn’t get more turnkey.”
Noah nods slowly, his expression neutral but his eyes attentive. “It’s a good house.”
“You’re just being polite.”
“No,” he says, and there’s a surprising firmness in his tone. “It’s a good house. Just...needs some adjustments. But we’ll handle that.”
The way he says we shouldn’t feel as reassuring as it does. It’s preferable to believe Dorian’s being absurd.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the counter. Stella’s location shows her moving—finally. Richard must have picked her up.
“She’ll be here in a few minutes,” I say, more to myself than to Noah. “My ex-husband drops her off. He’s particular about routines.”
“Understood.”
I pull the salmon from the oven and check the potatoes. The kitchen fills with the scent of herbs and lemon. It’s a small domestic ritual, but it grounds me—proof that despite everything, I can still create order, still provide.
“Do you cook?” I ask.
Noah’s mouth quirks. “I can manage. My mom made sure I wouldn’t starve when I left for basic training. Nothing fancy, but I won’t burn the house down.”
“That’s reassuring, given you’re living here.”
His laugh is low and genuine. It softens his face, makes him seem less like a security operative and more like...just a man. A man in my kitchen, drinking water while I cook dinner.
The front door opens, closes with a bang, followed by rapid footsteps.
“Mom? I’m home!”
Stella appears, backpack slung over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her dark hair—so much like mine—is pulled into a messy bun, and her school uniform is rumpled, skirt hitched up slightly from the car ride.
Then she sees Noah.
She stops mid-step, eyes widening. “Oh. Hi.”
“Stella, sweetheart, this is Noah Bennett. He’s part of the security team and is going to be staying with us for a couple of weeks.”
Noah steps forward, extending his hand with an easy confidence. “Nice to meet you, Stella.”
She shakes his hand, her expression torn between curiosity and caution. “Are you like...a bodyguard?”
“Something like that,” Noah says. “I’m helping your mom make sure everything’s running smoothly with her business.”
Stella’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Noah.
“Dad asked me why you have security people around now. He seemed kinda annoyed. And now there’s someone living here?” She drops her backpack. “Are you gonna tell him?”
I smooth my hands down my lounge set. “I’ll address his concerns when we speak. There’s nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart?—”
“Mom.” Stella levels me with a look far too knowing for twelve. “You always say that.”