Page 10 of Slapshot Bride

“Do you need to call anyone?”

“No,” I say it before I’ve thought about it, but once it’s out, I realize it’s true. “There’s nobody I can call right now who won’t make it worse. My mother means well, but she’s going to tell my father, and my father is going to call—” I stop. “No. Not tonight.”

He nods.

“Is there anything you need?”

I spread peanut butter on the toast and think about what I actually need, which is a list so long and so tangled that I can’t find the end of it.

I need my financial situation untangled from Preston’s. I need my life back. I need a plan that doesn’t have anyone else deciding how I live. I need about eight years of sleep.

“Not tonight,” I eventually repeat. “Some peace and quiet is enough.”

“Well, you’re at the right place.” He flashes his brows, and I can’t help but laugh.

“You should sleep,” I tell him. “You said you only got four hours.”

“I’m fine.” He picks up his mug and takes a sip. “I’ll sleep when you do.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I think we’ve successfully established that neither of us is a serial killer, so we can probably stop supervising each other and go to bed.”

A wide smile spreads across his face. “Fair point.”

I eat my toast, both pieces, and I drink the tea down to the dregs. He stands at the counter with his drink, watching me.

When I finish, I slide off the stool.

“Thank you,” I say again, because it’s all I have, and it still doesn’t feel remotely close to enough. “For the… for everything. The car, the house, the toast, and…”

My voice cracks apart on the last word.

Humiliation burns instantly behind my ribs.

God.

I don't want to cry in front of this man. I barely cry in front of family or friends, and this is practically a stranger.

But here I go anyway, my eyes stinging harder by the second as I stand barefoot in his kitchen wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs halfway down my thighs, my damp hair dripping onto my shoulders.

What a complete mess I am.

I drop my gaze fast, blinking hard like maybe I can shove the emotion back where it belongs. Back under control.

But the thing about today is that every feeling seems to be sitting directly against the surface of my skin now. No armor left. No polished smile. No pretending I’m okay because it makes everyone else more comfortable.

The atmosphere in the kitchen feels safe, and I think that’s what finally gets me. I feel safer standing here with this stranger than I ever did with Preston.

“Come here…” His voice is soft. Careful.

Before I can even process what’s happening, he closes the distance between us.

Big hands slide gently around my arms before he pulls me against him, solid warmth surrounding me from every direction.

His chest is broad and steady beneath my cheek, the fabric of his t-shirt soft from too many washes, carrying the faint scent of laundry detergent, cedarwood, and something distinctly male underneath it all.

My heart starts hammering unevenly against my ribs.

“You’re going to be okay.” The words rumble low against the top of my head. He sounds so certain. No hesitation whatsoever.