Although I’m not entirely sure if I’m relieved or not.
But it did end with her knees going weak and her stumbling in the aisle.
Of course I caught her.
Because that’s what I do with Peyton Sinclair.
She falls, I catch her.
She breaks, I pick up the pieces and put her back together.
And somehow, every time she looks at me afterward, I feel like I’ve done something worth a damn.
Analyzing why I do it ends the second I touch her, and the tingling sensation short-circuits my brain.
When the clamor of passengers exiting the plane brings me back to my senses, I lose them again when her ass starts swaying in those tight jeans.
Fuck. Me.
The airport is sheer hell because of her.
Normally, it doesn’t bother me. I put in my AirPods, listen to music, and casually observe all the chaos like I’m watching a show.
But not when Peyton’s beside me.
Not only does her mood affect mine—which has never happened to me before—but I’m hypervigilant.
She’s a magnet for trouble... and for male attention.
And oblivious to both.
Which works for me. Mostly.
She’s affected by me, but I haven’t figured out whether it’s because I’ve become her personal savior… or something else. Something I don’t want to identify.
As pissed as I am when some asshole bumps into her, I don’t mind when she crashes into me.
My body moves before my brain catches up, pulling her closer like she belongs with me.
I also don’t mind that the chaos keeps her in my personal space.
Although I’m pissed at that dumb teenager for slamming into her and nearly knocking her on her ass, I instinctively catch her… and carry her to my vehicle.
As soon as I scoop her up, she sags against me like I’mthe safest place in the world.
Because she trusts me.
Even after everything her psycho ex put her through.
Did I need to carry her out of the airport?
No.
Should I have checked whether she could walk?
Probably.
Do I care?
