Until now.
Until the feeling in my chest grows so sharp I swear it could cut steel.
She’s laughing with a group of tourists near the bake sale table, arms gesturing wildly as she tells a story I already know will end with glitter and a goat. Her hair’s falling out of its ponytail, hercheeks are flushed from the heat, and I’ve got a bad case ofcan’t look away.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
“You good?” one of the Lone Star rookies—Maverick—asks beside me.
“Fine,” I lie. My jaw tightens. “What’s the word from the firework team?”
“They’re still checking inventory. Looks like someone tried to move a crate. Marshal’s filing a report.”
I nod but barely hear him. My eyes are on Stella.
Because just as I feared, some idiot cowboy is leaning too close, flashing a grin, clearly trying to impress her with whatever Valor Springs boys use in place of charm. She laughs again—friendly, polite—and something in my chestsnaps.
“Excuse me,” I mutter.
I cross the square without thinking. Without caring that I’m technically just her bodyguard or that she’s notmine—becauseshe damn well is.
She’s not looking for me when I step in. But the second she sees me, her smile changes. Softer. Real. Like maybeshefeels it too—that pull between us that’s getting harder to ignore.
“Hey, Agent Cupcake,” she teases, tilting her head. “Miss me?”
“You good?” I ask instead, not bothering to smile at the cowboy still standing a few inches too close.
“Oh yeah.” She nods, lifting a cupcake like a peace offering. “Keeping the tourists well-fed and mildly confused. Standard teacher protocol.”
The guy beside her laughs, oblivious. “You from out of town, man?”
“No.” I lock eyes with him. “I’m security.”
Stella blinks. “Jack?—”
“Assigned to Stella,” I add, just a notch too sharp. “So if you’re finished flirting, she’s got somewhere to be.”
“I do?” she says, half amused, half suspicious.
“Yes.” I lean in closer, voice low. “With me.”
The guy clears his throat, gives Stella a nod, and mumbles something about kettle corn before wandering off. She watches him go, then looks up at me with that patented Stella expression—half sunshine, half sass.
“Possessive much?” she murmurs.
“Careful,” I say. “I haven’t even started.”
Her breath catches. Just a little.
“Jack,” she says softly, “you can’t just growl at every man who talks to me.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Seriously,” she says, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re overreacting. That guy sells hand-knit socks and dreams of owning a candle store.”
“Doesn’t matter. You smiled. He leaned in. I didn’t like it.”
Her brows lift. “You didn’tlikeit?”
