I shake my head. “Nah,” I say. “I cramped their style for long enough. They deserve their freedom, not to be tied down with a kid they didn’t want.”
His brows drag together. “Why do you?—”
But before he can finish the question—likely another one I don’t want to answer—there’s a knock at the door.
We both freeze.
“You expecting company?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head.
His eyes narrow, and he straightens, hops off the stool.
The loss of him close, of his warm, strong body hits hard, and thus, it takes me a second to process that this is my house and he’s answeringmydoor.
I climb down in a hurry, turn for the hall, and I’ve just reached the entryway when I hear,
“Who the hell are you?”
TWELVE
Damon
I’m staringat the older couple on the porch, pieces clicking into place as I spot an RV parked at the curb.
But I don’t so much as get a word out before the man, maybe early sixties with the beginnings of a beer belly and a handlebar mustache that doesn’t fucking quit, barks, “Who the hell are you?”
I open my mouth again, but I don’t get that out either.
Because the woman, petite and curved and wearing army green hiking pants, a cream long-sleeved tee, a sweater tied around her shoulders, looks beyond me and cries, “Josephine! My beautiful girl!”
Then she’s pushing by me, hightailing it into the house like the ten feet between her and Joey is the best hike she’s ever conquered, and the way she sweeps Joey into her arms for a long hug has our conversation flowing through my head again—knowing that she even keeps distance from these people who have love for her, who are protective.
Damn.
I don’t have time to sit in that, though, because the man—who I figure must be the firefighter who saved her all those years ago—is showing his protective side.
He clears his throat, mustache twitching, cold eyes on mine. “I believe I asked you a question, son.”
Immediately, my spine goes up.
I’ve never had patience for old codgers like this, who think their shit doesn’t stink and that they’re owed an explanation on their terms. My dad, when he popped back up in my life looking for a handout, had exactly the same demeanor and presumption.
But the reason this interaction doesn’t send my rage spiraling is because this is the man who saved her.
Who protected her.
The man she clearly cares about.
So, I bite back the urge to snap back and just extend my hand. “Damon Connors.”
His bushy brows pull together as he shakes it. “The GM?”
I nod. “Yes, Joey and I work together on the Sierra.”
Instantly, his puffed-up demeanor melts away and he pumps my hand a few more times, mustache twitching again, but this time because he’s smiling instead of scowling. “Joey speaks very highly of you, and we especially appreciate the quick action you took last season.”
“Hiller is not only an asshole,” I mutter, rage slicing through me, “but he’s a fucking predator who deserves every bit of shit that’s been shoveled onto him,anda whole lot more.”
