Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Tiny.
Fragile.
But real. And that seems to ease something in him too. He slides one hand down my arm and takes my hand, turning it palm-up. My fingers are marked with half-moons from my own nails.
His thumb traces them lightly. “You tense up every time I go hard like that,” he says quietly.
I don’t deny it. Because it’s true. Not because I think he’ll turn that anger on me. But because my body still remembers men who did. He looks at me, and I can tell he understands that too.
“Then I need to keep showing you the difference,” he says.
My eyes lift to his. “The difference?”
“Between a man who’s dangerous to you and a man who’s dangerous for you.”
The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere tender. And because I am apparently too emotional and too tired and too full of him already, my eyes burn unexpectedly.
I blink fast. He notices. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.” The gentleness of that nearly undoes me. He pulls me in then.
Not crushing.
Not trapping.
Just gathering me carefully against him, one arm around my shoulders, the other hand at the back of my head.
I go without thinking. Just fold into him. And because I’ve spent too many years holding myself together in thin, brittle pieces, the relief of not doing that for one second feels almost like grief.
His mouth brushes my hair. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he says, not as accusation. Just fact.
“I know.”
“You tell me next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“No,” he agrees, his voice turning colder. “There won’t.”
I believe him. That should be reckless. Maybe it is. But I do. After a minute, he eases me back enough to look at my face. “Quinn doesn’t know?”
I shake my head. “Good.” The word comes out clipped. Protective. Decisive.
He lets me go just enough to pull out a chair and guide me into it. “Sit.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“You’re shaky.”
Also true.
I sit.
He hands me the sweet tea I forgot was there and crouches beside my chair instead of looming over me. The move is so deliberate it catches in my chest.
He knows exactly how not to make me feel cornered.
“I’m going to have someone trace the number,” he says.
My head jerks up. “You can do that?”
His expression says obviously. “I have people.”
“Of course you do.”
“Also,” he says, “I’m not leaving tonight.”
The words should probably make me protest. Instead relief washes through me so hard it’s embarrassing.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
He searches my face. “You sure?”
“Yes.” He nods once. “Then eat, baby.”
I look at the food on the table and almost laugh again. “Now?”
“Yeah. Fear doesn’t beat dinner.”
I let out a breath that trembles on the way out. “That sounded rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Pity. It was kind of good.”
This time his mouth actually does twitch.
Small.
But there.
I pick up a fry mostly because he told me to and because obeying him in this tiny harmless way feels easier than arguing. Plus, I like French fries.
He watches until I eat it. Then finally stands and pulls out the chair across from me. For the rest of the evening, he stays.
Marlaina drops Quinn off half an hour later and Tucker greets her like nothing is wrong, like the room doesn’t still carry the echo of Clint’s voice. Quinn chatters about finger painting and a loose tooth and whether dragons would like chicken nuggets, and Tucker listens the way he always does—fully, patiently, with his attention fixed where it matters.
Later, while I do bath time and story time, he fixes the loose cabinet hinge by the sink because apparently that was bothering him too.
When Quinn is finally asleep and the house settles into night, I find him in the living room sitting on the couch with one arm stretched across the back, boots planted on my rug like he’s always belonged there.
He looks up when I come in.
“You okay?”
The question has become so constant between us that it no longer sounds strange.
I nod.
“Better.”
“Good.”
I sit beside him. Not too close at first. Then closer. Until my shoulder touches his arm. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a thing of it. Just lets me lean. And in that quiet, with the house locked and Quinn asleep and Tucker Bostic steady beside me, I realize something I probably should have admitted sooner.
I’m not just falling for him anymore. I’m trusting.
And that is somehow even more terrifying.
SIXTEEN
MELLOW
There’s something surreal about standing in a parking lot full of motorcycles before sunrise while Lucy Coe adjusts the strap of her helmet beside me like this is something we do all the time.
Maybe it’s the soft blue of early morning still hanging low over Freedom Falls. Maybe it’s the line of bikes glinting under the gas station lights. Maybe it’s the fact that Quinn spent the night at Marlaina’s so Lucy could come on this ride with me and not worry every five seconds about whether her daughter’s eaten enough fruit or brushed her teeth. They are having a girl’s glamping weekend according to Marlaina while I show Lucy more of my lifestyle.