Page 36 of No Good Fight

He is quiet for half a beat too long.

“Small town,” he says with an almost dismissive shrug.

I almost laugh, but there is no humor in it because we’re still standing in the rain. “That answer gets worse every time you use it.”

“I know.”

The honesty is more unsettling than the lie I can see written all over his face.

Ryder opens my car door wider and checks the back seat one more time before stepping aside. “Let me follow you home.” He hands me the photo and nods toward the road.

I want to argue. The shape of the words are already there, familiar and sharp on my tongue, because I do not like being told what to do by men who look like they could carry me out of a burning building or ruin my life with one concerned stare.

But I’m tired of fighting against the feelings I have for him. At least right now.

Seeing Ryder’s headlights in my mirror sounds better than driving home alone while pretending I’m not afraid.

“Fine,” I say.

His mouth softens just enough to let me know he hears everything I’m trying to hide under that word.

I climb into the car before he can say anything and shut the door against the drizzle.

The drive back to my apartment is quiet and strangely intimate for two people in separate vehicles. Ryder stays behind me the whole way, close enough that I know where he is without feeling crowded. When another car turns in behind us, his truck shifts slightly, taking up a position that makes my throat tighten for reasons I refuse to examine while operating a motor vehicle.

Every time I check the mirror, he is there.

The steadiness of it does something to my breathing.

By the time we reach my building, the rain has turned heavier, smearing the streetlights into gold across the pavement. I park in my usual spot and sit with both hands on the wheel. My car is off. My seat belt is unbuckled but I still don’t move.

Ryder opens my door and my frigid heart thaws for him even more at the kind gesture.

He stands there in the rain, shirt damp, hat low, expression carefully blank except for his eyes. His eyes are filled with a dozen different emotions and I don’t know how to handle any of them.

“Thank you.” It sounds inadequate, when it means everything to me.

He looks at my hands.

I’m shaking again.

I curl my fingers into my sleeves trying to soothe myself, but I can feel the anxiety and fear growing by the second. I’m not even trying to fool myself or the man who has made the idea of noticing me his entire personality this week.

Ryder reaches in slowly.

I have time to stop him or tell him no, or even to shake my head or take a step back.

I don’t do any of that.

His hand settles at the back of my neck while he hugs me, warm and steady against my damp skin. My whole body quiets so fast it scares me more than the photograph. The pressure in my chest loosens. My breathing evens out. Some panicked part of me recognizes his touch as safe before my brain can decide whether that is smart.

The contact is too intimate. Too natural. Too easy.

Ryder knows.

I can see that he knows because his eyes darken, and his hand stills like he’s fighting himself as hard as I am.

Then he lets go.