Page 141 of Hard Pass

And that has left me floored and overwhelmed. Not only am I at an outright loss for words, but I’m drowning in a collision of emotions.

None of which I feel qualified to define.

The car idles for a beat longer than necessary once we pull in his driveway. The engine ticks as it cools, a soft steady sound that fills the silence between us.

Cole moves first, pushing his door open and stepping out like he’s no doubt done a thousand times before. But tonight is different. Tonight he placed himself in front of a swarm of paparazzi and reporters and put himself in the line of fire for me.

My door opens before I even think to reach for the handle. I blink, startled, and look up at him.

There’s no hesitation in his expression, no second-guessing bringing me here, but rather that same steady, grounded certainty he had when he faced down the crowd.

He extends a hand.

“You don’t get to drag her name through the mud to make a better story.”

My throat tightens as I place my hand in his. It’s warm and solid and real and it has me stepping out of the SUV on legs that don’t entirely feel like my own.

“I’m fine.” The words are automatic because that’s what I always say. Because it’s easier than admitting I’m anything but.

His mouth quirks like he doesn’t believe me for a second.

“Of course you are,” he murmurs with a flicker of irritation in his voice. “You always are.”

I should argue and push back. I should tell him that he doesn’t need to swoop in and save me . . . instead I follow him.

Up the short walkway and with the night air cool against my overheated skin, his hand finds the small of my back.

“She did her job better than anyone else could have.”

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped walking until he does too. His hand lingers at my back for a fraction of a second longer before he reaches past me to unlock the door.

Once inside, he shuts the door behind us with a soft thud that feels final, like we’ve stepped out of the world and into something else entirely. Something quieter. Something with ramifications that go well beyond just my career and my reputation.

These deal with my heart.

I drift toward his kitchen, my fingers skimming the edge of the kitchen island, needing to ground myself to something solid.

“You want a headline? Fine. Here it is.”

God.

I squeeze my eyes shut for second, but it doesn’t help clarify what I’m feeling. If anything, it makes it all the more complicated, because now they’re not just his words replaying. It’s the way he said them. How he didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch, and sure as hell didn’t ask me for permission.

He just took charge.

He just chose.

And . . . no one has ever done that for me before.

Is it weak to admit how good that felt? To not be the one who has to wear it all on her own for once?

“Dublin.”

I turn around and meet his eyes. He’s standing a few feet away watching me. Not assessing or trying to figure outcomes—but really seeing me. Like I’m someone worth putting his reputation on the line for. Those pale blue irises look back at me and say things I don’t think either of us are ready to admit to.

“Cole.” My head shakes and eyes blink.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks.