She bites her lower lip, and my cock jerks in response. "That sounds expensive."
"Safety's not cheap." I step closer, towering over her. Can't help myself. "But I'll work something out with you."
Her chest rises and falls faster. She can feel it—this thing crackling between us. This inevitability.
I spend the next hour measuring, making notes, calling suppliers, all while keeping her in my sight. When a customer comes in—some asshole in a business suit who stands too close to her—I find myself across the store in seconds, looming nearby until he backs the fuck off.
She doesn't say anything about it, but I catch her watching me, confusion in those innocent eyes.
By the time I'm ready to start the install, I've memorized every detail of her. The way she tucks hair behind her ear when she's nervous. How she hugs books to her chest before shelving them. The little hum she makes when she's concentrating.
I'm forty-two years old. Been with my share of women. Never felt this—this fucking certainty. This need to claim and keep.
"I'll start in the back," I tell her as I haul in my toolbox. "Stay up front with the customers."
She nods, but looks at me with curiosity now. "You're not what I expected, Mr. Hale."
That "Mr. Hale" shit makes my cock twitch again. Christ. "What'd you expect?"
"I don't know. The company website just said 'expert security installation.' I pictured someone..." She trails off, eyes darting away from my tattooed forearms, my scarred knuckles.
"Someone smaller? Less ugly?" I've never been one to bullshit.
"No!" Her eyes snap back to mine, genuine shock there. "Not ugly at all. Just…intense."
Intense.That's one fucking word for it. If she could hear the thoughts in my head—the ways I want to claim her, protect her, keep her—she'd be running for the door.
"Security's a serious business," I mutter, turning away before I do something stupid like push her up against the shelves and taste that mouth.
I work in the back room, but my senses stay tuned to her movements in the store. Each time the bell above the door rings, my body tenses until I confirm it's not a threat. Not to her. My tools nearly slip from my hands when I hear her laugh—a sound so sweet and light it makes my chest ache.
By the end of the day, I've replaced her back door, installed new deadbolts, and mounted the first camera. Tomorrow I'll bring the rest of the system. And the day after that, I'll find another reason to be here. And the next day too.
Because the second I laid eyes on Julia Carter, something primitive and absolute took over. Some men spend their lives searching for purpose. Mine just walked into focus wearing a cardigan and a smile that could bring a man like me to his knees.
She's mine. She doesn't know it yet, but she will. And God help anyone who tries to get in my way.
two
. . .
Julia
He fillsthe entire doorway of Pages & Petals when he arrives for the second day of installation. I nearly drop my coffee mug.Butch Hale. Even his name is brutally masculine. All night I couldn't stop thinking about those massive hands that caught me on the ladder yesterday—how they nearly circled my entire waist, how warm they felt through my cardigan. I'm not supposed to notice these things. I'm supposed to be professional. But there's something about him that makes my skin tingle with awareness I've only read about in romance novels.
"Good morning," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
He grunts in response, those piercing eyes scanning the store before landing on me. I feel that gaze like a physical touch. It trails over my face, down my neck, lingering on the curve of my hips. Heat blooms across my cheeks.
"Made progress yesterday," he says, dropping his toolbox with a heavy thud that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. "Need to finish the wiring today."
I nod, clutching my mug tighter. "Of course. Do you…need anything from me?"
Something flashes in his eyes at that question. Something hungry that makes my stomach flutter. But it's gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
He shakes his head and grunts. Then he's moving past me, the sleeve of his flannel brushing against my arm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.
I should be offended by his brusqueness. Instead, I find myself watching him move, fascinated by the play of muscles beneath his shirt as he reaches up to install a camera in the corner. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms mapped with tattoos and old scars. Each mark seems to tell a story he'll never share.
