I step a little closer, until we’re nearly toe to toe. “No, Stella. I didn’t. I don’t like anyone being that close to you butme.”
Her lips part slightly. I can see the pulse flutter in her neck. And I have to fight the overwhelming urge to lean in and press my mouth to the spot just below her ear—just to see if it tastes as sweet as she smells.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers, eyes darting to the crowd.
“Yup,” I agree, not moving an inch. “One of the worst.”
“But you’re still here.”
“I am.”
She lets out a shaky breath and turns slightly, half shielding herself behind the bake sale table like she’s trying to put space between us.
It doesn’t work.
I just step to the side again. Blocking. Guarding. Watching the way she presses her thighs together like she’s trying to anchor herself.
“You feel it too,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t have to.
Her eyes tell me everything.
“I’m not a little girl,” she says after a beat, straightening her shoulders. “I don’t need you hovering.”
“Too late.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“I know,” I say. “But you’re mine to protect.”
Her mouth opens, closes. “You can’t say things like that, Jack.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my brother’s friend. Because I bake cookies and wear pink sneakers and you wear bulletproof vests and probably keep grenades in your truck.”
“They’re in the glove box,” I say, deadpan.
She laughs, and I swear I’d brave a war zone for that sound. “Okay, Rambo,” she says, biting her lip. “What now?”
“Now,” I say, scanning the crowd behind her again, “you stay in sight. You don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t drive yourself home. And you keep your phone on.”
“You’re really doing this, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until the threats stop.”
“And if they don’t?”
I step closer again, lowering my voice to a promise. “Then I don’t stop either.”
She looks up at me like she wants to argue—but all she does is nod.
Quiet. Soft.Trusting.
