“Didn’t feel like scraping you off the sidewalk later.” He pushes off the wall. “Let’s go.”
I should resist. Tell him I’ve been walking three blocks by myself for over a year without a six-foot-something shadow. ThatArtis the one I’d call to walk me home, except…
Art’s not here.
And as we walk up the stairs to the back hallway of the bar, I think about the man earlier tonight. The one with the blond crew cut and the grin that felt like it was slicing through my skin.
“You know, I doubt anything’s going to happen to me just walking down the street,” I say, stepping outside into the alley, the cold air slapping the damp tunnel smells off my body.
He sighs. “You are so naive it hurts, Genevieve.”
“Oh, please.” I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “You act like we’re living in some medieval village where bandits jump out from behind barrels.”
“You never know what people are capable of.”
My studio’s close, but I can’t pretend I don’t feel safer with him shadowing me.
“So, what, you think you’re the authority on all things dangerous?” I ask.
“I know I am.”
We round the corner and stop in front of my door, and he leans in, crowding me against the brick of the building.
Heat prickles my skin, and my mouth goes dry. He smells like leather and something woodsy that makes me think of campfires and cold nights.
Art wears Tom Ford—a fresh and citrusy smell. This is none of those things.
And now, unfortunately, my body remembers what it’s like to have Lance’s large hand pressed against my throat, cradling it like a necklace.
Another thing Art’s never done.
His shoulders block out everything behind him. I crane my neck to hold eye contact, and even then I feel swallowed whole.
A flash of him underground hits me—shirtless, tattoo-covered muscles tensing as he unwrapped his hands, his silver chain roped around his neck.
Heat flushes up my throat.Why can’t he be anuglyasshole?
I shove my palms against his torso to make some space. My fingers meet his abs through the fabric, and a stab of heat jolts through me.
“Why do you even care?” I ask. “If I’m so naive and such a waste of your time or whatever, then why bother?”
“You don’t have to like a person to want to keep them alive,” he says.
“Whatever you say, Champ.” I step inside my apartment, flicking on the lights. And Lance is still there, standing in my doorway.
“You can go.” I toss the keys into the entryway bowl.
He moves inside instead, closing the door behind him. “What’s that smell?”
“Blech,” I mutter, pulling my shirt away from my neck, aware of the bleach smell clinging to me. “Huh? Oh, that’s the slow cooker.”
Lance raises an eyebrow, glancing toward the counter in the small kitchenette, like the idea of me slow-cooking anything is suspicious.
“You cook?”
“Sometimes.” I flip the switch on the cooker to warm, and take the top off, the steam curling like a little white flag I didn’t mean to wave. “It relaxes me.”
He chuckles.
