Connor’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t interrupt. The restraint is obvious. So is the anger underneath it.
“The last time was two nights ago,” I continue, wrapping both hands around my iced tea. “He came in right before closing and asked again. I told him as clearly as I could that I wasn’t interested, and he got embarrassed, then angry. Said I thought I was too good for him. Said women my size should be grateful for attention.” I hate repeating it. “I told him to leave. He did. Then this morning, the window.”
Connor’s hand closes around his coffee mug. “Did you tell the police his name?”
“No.”
“Emi.” My name comes out rough, not scolding, but close enough that my spine stiffens.
“I know how it sounds. But I didn’t see him do it. There are no cameras. It’s paint on a window. I didn’t want to sound hysterical.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, so firm and immediate that it cuts through the noise around us.
I stare at him, my throat tight. I’m not used to being believed that quickly. Connor doesn’t ask whether David was just awkward and misunderstood. He believes me, and that might be the most dangerous thing he’s done all day.
“I’ll update the report tomorrow,” I say softly. “With his name.”
“Good.” He leans back, but the tension in him doesn’t ease. “Are you okay with me spending a few more days at the bookstore?”
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“It’s my job.”
“It’s unnecessary.”
“No, it isn’t.” His voice stays even, which makes the words harder to dismiss. “Someone who reacted badly to rejection escalated his actions to vandalism. He knows where you work. He may know your closing routine. A few days of visibility could make him rethink coming back.”
The worst part is that he’s right. I can argue tone, boundaries, and whether large men should be allowed to make declarations over half-eaten fries, but I can’t argue the logic. I felt safer with Connor in the store today. When the bell rang, I didn’t tense as sharply. When men came in, I didn’t feel like I needed to track them every second.
“You can’t just spend days at my store for free,” I say. “You have actual clients. A life. Protein powder to drink.”
His mouth twitches. “Very funny.”
“If you’re working, I’m paying you.”
“I’m not charging you.”
“Then you’re not working.”
“I’ll be there anyway.”
“Connor,” I say, putting every ounce of warning I have into his name.
“Emi,” he answers, calm as anything.
We stare at each other across the table, and I realize I’m fighting a smile at the same time I’m fighting the urge to throw a fry at him. This is absurd. This man walked into my life this morning because someone else tried to scare me, and now he’s sitting across from me making stubbornness look stupidly attractive.
“Are you always this stubborn?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I finally laugh, and his expression changes with such honest satisfaction that my chest goes warm. He likes making me laugh. I can see it. Worse, I like that he likes it.
“Fine,” I say, though I hold up one hand when his eyes sharpen. “A few days. And we’re going to discuss payment again, because I’m not letting you donate professional services because you’re bossy and broad-shouldered.”
