“Chloe.” Franco’s voice is raspy, as if he’s as worn out as I am. I realize I haven’t thanked him. “Chloe.” He’s saying it again, but this time, he’s closer. He’s staring at me with those summer-sky eyes, and a weary half smile claims his beautiful mouth. “I’m not going to leave you,” he promises. “I’m going to go up with you. You’re going to pack a bag, and I’m going to bring you someplace safe. Okay?”
I stare at Franco’s outstretched hand. If he’d offered his hand to me yesterday, I would have leaped at the chance to touch him.
Today, holding his hand means I have to move. Have to go inside. Face the reality and fears all alone, even if he walks me as far as the door.
I can’t do it.
“I have to go home,” I say, quietly wringing my hands.
I can’t do any of this.
“Youarehome,” Franco says, looking puzzled. He rests a hand on my thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Chloe.” His voice is a lifeline. Warm, steady, and solid.
Gone is the broody grump who wouldn’t look at me over dinner or who glared at me for too long.
This Franco is nothing if not sincere.
“I’m right here. Come on. Let’s go inside. I won’t let anything hurt you. You got that? I’m right here. And I wish I’d fucking been there at the store five minutes earlier.” He squeezes his lips together and flares his nostrils. But then he releases my thigh and clicks open my seat belt. “Take my hand. Let’s get a bag packed and get the fuck out of here.”
He eases my seat belt away from my body, and now there is nothing left to do but take his hand and move one leg at a time out of the truck.
The fall air is crisp, and his breath curls in front of his face in soft puffs of steam. My hand shakes as I reach for his. My legs feel weak but also like they are surging with fear, like at any moment, I could break into a run and take myself far, far away from here.
The intensity of the experience is too much. I hit the pavement, and my knees buckle. “Whoa.” I reach for the truck door, but Franco is there instead.
His body is warm and firm, and he’s got a hand on my waist, but somehow my thighs are plastered against his. I follow my body’s momentum and lean all the way into him.
“Whoa,” he echoes what I just said, but his word is heavy with something else. His breath fans my ear, and for a moment, I get lost in the reassuring comfort of him. He’s like a wall of muscle blocking the rest of the world from getting to me.
It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I lean my forehead against his chest and close my eyes. Maybe I’m chickenshit, hiding like this behind a man I hardly know. But before I can think better of what I’m doing, I lift up on my toes and wrap my arms around his neck.
“Thank you,” I breathe against his neck. The long layers of his hair tickle my face, and I’m a little too short to reach comfortably, but he is already wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close. I hug him hard and let the tears burn the backs of my eyelids. “What would have happened if you hadn’t come when you did?”
I mean, I know the criminal was already outside when Franco arrived, but the guy took my phone. The store has a landline, but I was so weak and terrified.
Would I have been able to call for help? What if I’d passed out alone?
My entire body trembles, and he holds me even closer. The unbelievable heat of him seeps through my clothes, and, if anything, I hold on even tighter.
He doesn’t say anything and doesn’t relax his hold on me. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
I breathe in the heady scent of his hair, the light fragrance of hair oil, soap, smoke, and I know I have to let go. I’m embarrassing myself further. But my body knows what it wants, and this biker-mechanic-bodyguard is exactly the shield I need right now. I will rally.
I will get past this. But right now? I’m in no state to pretend to be stronger than I am.
“I don’t really want to let go,” I admit, my words sounding fuzzy against his collar.
I can feel his hands through my sweater, firm but gentle on my waist. “How about we try this?” he says. “Let’s walk inside. Let’s get you packed. And then, if you need more of this, you just come on back for more.”
I nod and loosen my hands and steady my feet beneath me. I wipe my hands on the legs of my pants and shake clear the cobwebs.
One thing at a time.
“Inside. Pack a bag,” I repeat, more to myself than to him, feeling suddenly vulnerable again. There is a clear path between me and the exterior stairs that lead to my apartment. No massive man blocking the way. “Where do you plan to take me? I don’t want to impose on anyone, and—”
“My place,” he says. “You can stay with me tonight.”
Something electric dances in my belly when he says that. In the state I’m in, I can’t tell whether it’s excitement, relief, or fear that I’m feeling. “Your place?” I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that. I can just—”
