But I quickly see a man on a machine behind her, taking in her figure, as well.
I grit my teeth and move, putting myself between him and her.
Gazing down at her hair, I inhale the scent of her shampoo. Last time I saw her eight years ago, she stopped at just about where my heart sits. Now the crown of her head is at my mouth.
Yet, it’s more than that. I can talk to her like an adult. And God, part of me wants to. I want someone to talk to. She’s connected to me, like Madoc, but unlike him, she’s not pressuring me and constantly looking with a question in her eyes, or holding back anger at the time I cost us when I left.
She needs to stay the same, though. I don’t want her to ever change.
I almost touch her hair.Stay like this.
I grab the bar instead and draw a deep breath, blinking away the thoughts.
“Twenty seconds,” I say, pushing her head back down and keeping her bent in half to stretch.
She grunts, her ponytail dragging on the floor. “You’re not my babysitter anymore.”
“I’m still older.” I keep my hand on the back of her neck as I take a swig of water. “I’ll always be older.”
“So, when I’m twenty-six and you’re thirty-eight,” she argues. “It’ll still be like this?”
Twenty-six.
Thirty-eight.
When she’s twenty-six, how many men will have loved her by then? How many will she have loved?
“Lucas?”
I let out a breath. “No,” I tell her. “You get full autonomy by then. Promise.”
But the truth is, she’ll belong to someone by then. Much sooner, by the looks of things. Men don’t want other men around what’s theirs, and they won’t like me around her. Even if I’m just a family friend. If I’m not blood, I’m a threat.
I let my gaze fall; possessive of the time I was a part of her life. Someone will come along who doesn’t know that I meant anything, and it’ll be like I never existed. He’ll get more years than the thirteen I had with her.
I knew that, though, didn’t I?
We turn in our towels and make our way out of the gym to my rental car in the back lot.
“You need to get a license.” I unlock the car and open her door. “And a car.”
She climbs in and waits for me to open the driver’s side door. “I understood that argument when I was thirteen,” she calls out as I climb in, “but we have Uber and Lyft now.”
“It’s safer to own a car and have the option.” I close the door and fasten my seatbelt. “And not be at the mercy of men looking for an in by offering you a ride home, right?”
I start the car and slide my phone into the console, but before I pull away from the curb, I look over at her. She stares at nothing, a solemn expression on her face.
“What?” I ask.
She just shrugs. “I have a license. Icandrive,” she admits. “There was no way my brothers were going to stand for anyone in the family not being able to drive stick, either, but…”
“But?”
She twists her lips to the side. “Bicycles are quiet.” Her voice is timid as she turns to me. “Walking is quiet. And there are no seatbelts. I like the air.”
My heart softens, Quinn’s appreciation for the little things flooding back like she’s a kid. She always took it a little slower than everyone in her family. Liked walking and feeling the wind and admiring people’s yards as we passed.
I want her to ride her bike.
