When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2060

Only then did Jocelyn's mind catch up with her racing body.

"No. No," she repeated, more to herself than to him.

He drew her closer until no light could slip between them. "I missed you so much," he murmured. "Did you think about me while I was gone?"

The question tangled her tongue. She had no idea what to say.

During the past month, they had shared only sporadic messages—routine hellos that felt like postcards from strangers.

"Um, I guess," she finally said after a breath's hesitation.

He reached for the switch. Soft light flooded the room, and he stared down at Jocelyn with an intensity that stole her next breath.

Yannick lowered his head, ready to claim another soft kiss, when Jocelyn suddenly slipped from the circle of his arms and ducked away as though the air had turned too hot to breathe.

"When did you get back? Have you eaten yet?" Jocelyn blurted, weaponizing small talk to cover the nervous beat of her heart.

The abrupt distance pricked him with disappointment, but Yannick smoothed the feeling away before it could fully form, masking it behind a calm, easy smile.

"I just got in a little while ago. Haven't had a bite. How about you?"

"I just came home from work myself—no dinner yet. I'll cook something," she said, already escaping toward the kitchen like salvation waited behind a cupboard door.

"Great, I'll help." Yannick fell in step, refusing to let the gap between them widen.

Minutes later, the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder under the kitchen's warm light. Yet tonight, Jocelyn could neither settle nor stand still.

In front of the refrigerator, she fumbled for vegetables and meat, while Yannick dutifully washed greens at the sink, stripping stems with quiet efficiency.

They had always worked like this—his grandmother insisted that an engaged couple ought to live together to learn the rhythm of shared life—so Jocelyn had moved into Yannick's place after the old woman's last visit.

Despite sharing a home, they had never crossed the final boundary; theirs was an engagement conducted with cautious distance, a formality that sometimes felt more like polite tenancy than budding romance.

"You just got back. Go sit down and rest," Jocelyn urged, her lungs tightening at the thought of him lingering too close.

"I'm fine." Yannick answered lightly, grin widening until his dimples flashed.

"You've heard of Sven, right?"

Jocelyn nodded. "Ms. Smith's bodyguard? He's impressive."

Yannick waited for her nod before continuing. "That's who I tracked down. He's no ordinary guard; his family's comfortable enough. Trouble is, one of his buddies tried to set him up. I got there just in time to pull him out of the fire."

The revelation that Sven carried a secret life lit curiosity in Jocelyn's eyes; she kept stealing glances at Yannick, craving every detail.

Sensing her interest, Yannick stopped holding back, unraveling the entire story—every close call, every narrow escape—until the kitchen felt thick with the echo of distant gunfire and screeching tires.

He talked straight through the cooking and well into dinner, words tumbling like sparks while steam rose from their plates, each new tale binding them more tightly across the table than any cautious silence ever could.

Jocelyn listened quietly while Yannick talked himself empty.

Later, when lamps had been dimmed and the corridors fallen quiet, she slipped into his guestroom to spread fresh sheets. Before the cotton even settled, Yannick's fingers closed around her wrist—warm, certain, pleading.

"Jocelyn, we're getting married soon," he murmured, voice low enough to tremble. "Let's stop pretending we need separate beds."