She’s near the center, bundled in a bright red peacoat. She’s holding a sign high –SUGAR RUSH: HEART OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and probably the effort of shouting. She’s leading the chant now, her voice clear and strong.
“Whose bakery?” she calls out.
“OUR BAKERY!” the crowd roars back.
“Whose neighborhood?”
“OUR NEIGHBORHOOD!”
She looks… vibrant and fierce. The sight sends a fresh surge of that protectiveness through me, hotter and sharper than before.
This is her fight. Her dream. And she’s standing in the cold, shouting for it, surrounded by people who believe in her. Who believe inthisplace.
She turns slightly and her gaze sweeps past me, then snaps back. Her eyes widen. Her chant dies on her lips mid-word. She just stares, her sign dipping slightly, surprise etching lines across her forehead.
I don’t hesitate now. Instead, I stride forward, closing the distance between us through the press of bodies. People shift, murmuring as they recognize me.
I ignore the whispers, and the flicker of pictures being taken. My focus is entirely on her face, on the dawning realization in her eyes, shifting from shock to something brighter.
“Need a hand with that?” My voice is barely audible over the chanting and the wind, but she hears me. She blinks, then a slow, radiant smile spreads across her face. It’s the kind of smile that could melt the snow piled along the curbs.
She thrusts the sign towards me. “Thought you’d never ask.”
My fingers brush hers as I take the painted cardboard and raise the sign up high. A low buzz of excited whispers ripples through the crowd. I can feel the weight of their curious stares.
Holly glances around, a flicker of self-consciousness crossing her features before she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. She opens her mouth to restart the chant, but before she can, I act.
In one smooth motion, I step closer to her, closing the space between us. My free arm slides around her shoulders, pullingher firmly against my side, tucking her into the shelter of my coat. She fits there perfectly.
Her body is tense for a split second, surprised by the public gesture, then melts into me with a soft sigh I feel more than hear. Her head rests against my shoulder, her cold cheek pressing into the wool.
“Whose bakery?” Holly calls out again, her voice regaining its strength. It’s louder now, defiant.
“OUR BAKERY!” The crowd’s response is thunderous, energized.
“Whose neighborhood?”
“OUR NEIGHBORHOOD!”
I chant along with everyone else. Holding the sign. Holdingher.
Then I see her. A young woman with bright pink streaks in her dark hair, wearing a puffy silver coat that looks like a sleeping bag. She’s not chanting. She’s holding a professional-looking camera with a long lens, pointed directly at us.
A laminated press pass hangs around her neck on a lanyard.Chicago Neighborhood News Blog, it probably says. Just local news. Not the national sports vultures. But still… she’s got her camera pointed at me. With my arm firmly around Holly James.
My muscles tense instinctively. Years of media training scream:Step back. Disengage. Maintain the image.
The old Denton Blake would have already been halfway down the block. The old Denton Blake wouldn’t have gotten out of the damn car.
I meet the lens. Not with a glare, not with a practiced media smile. Just… directly. Letting her get the shot. The flash goes off, a brief, blinding stab of light in the gray afternoon. Holly flinches slightly against my side.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, my lips brushing the top of her head. My arm tightens around her shoulders, pulling her even closer.
Let her take the picture. Let her post it. Let the blogs speculate. Let my agent panic. Let management ask their questions.
I don’t give a damn.
Chapter 24
