I return my attention back to the woman I can’t stop watching. I’m too old for her. Too jaded. Too disciplined.
And yet.
She glances my way just then, brushing hair out of her face, lips curved in a half-smile like she’s remembering something funny. Her nose is a little sunburned. There’s a streak of frosting on her arm she hasn’t noticed. And I feel it again—that same pull. The irrational one. The one that makes me want to cross a street I’ve spent my whole life keeping clear.
Not happening. I don’t cross lines. Not with clients. Not with little sisters of men I respect. Not even if they laugh like that.
I force myself to do a perimeter check. My boots move automatically, but my thoughts stay stuck.
She called me her cupcake hero.
She didn’t flinch when I grabbed her. Just looked up at me with those big brown eyes and asked if I was allergic to cherries.
God help me, she’s adorable.
But adorable gets people killed. Adorable is the girl you take home after the mission—not the one you try to keep alive during it.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling something’s off. The hay bale wasn’t random. The way it toppled—timed perfectly for when she walked by—sets every instinct I have on edge.
My phone buzzes a while later.
Wyatt:She still breathing?
Me:Mostly frosting and adrenaline, but yeah. She’s fine.
Wyatt:Good. Mrs. Kershaw’s asking if she’s bringing a date to the two-step tonight. That’s your in.
I groan under my breath. Great. A town dance. The worst possible place to protect a woman who draws chaos like a magnet and looks like a heartache wrapped in a sundress.
“Sir?”
I turn. Young officer. New. Maybe fresh out of the academy. “Sinclair?”
“There’s a report of someone tampering with the fireworks trailer down by the high school. The sheriff wants someone to stay here while they check it out.”
“I’ll stay,” I say without thinking. Because Stella’s here. And I’m not going anywhere.
The officer nods and jogs off.
Across the square, she’s talking to the PTA lady again, smiling that easy, patient smile like she was born to manage sugar and glitter and mayhem. A little girl runs past her, trips, and Stella catches her mid-stumble like she has reflexes trained by love and muscle memory.
I remember women like her from another life. Before the service. Before I learned how to lie still and breathe through explosions. They’d sit in the bleachers with lunchboxes and hope in their eyes, watching the game like the world might turn out okay.
Back then, I thought I’d marry one. I thought I'd have a normal life. A yard. A porch swing. A woman like Stella, who’d teach kids to read and bake cookies that don’t come from a store.
Then things changed.
Now I keep people alive. I keep my promises. And I keep my distance.
But damn if Stella Hart isn’t the first person in a long time who makes me want to forget that.
A new text flashes across my screen.
Stella:Is an almost “minor hay bale concussion” covered by Lone Star’s insurance? Asking for a friend.
I smile.
I shouldn’t.
