Page 103 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Lance: He gets quiet when he thinks he’s screwed up

Screwed up? What did that mean? And did I have it in me to ask Lance what he meant?

Gwen: Can I do anything to get him talking?

Lance: Try a joke

Lance: The worse, the better

Gwen: You’re not serious

Lance: Trust me

I stared at the phone, then at the flat fields, clusters of trees, and the occasional stone farmhouse sliding past us. A joke? My mind went blank. And what was I supposed to say after embarrassing myself with a horrible joke?

Arthur slowed and flicked on the turn signal. “This is the spot.”

I leaned forward as Arthur turned onto a narrow lane bordered by overgrown hedges. It opened into a cracked parking lot where weeds pushed through every seam, and beyond it, the skeleton of a roller coaster rose against the sky.

A gray Peugeot sat in the far corner.

Arthur pulled up next to it in the Land Rover and got out. He found the keys under the floor mat while I transferred the sword case and my messenger bag.

I pulled out a duffel that had been sitting in the back seat and rummaged through it. The contents were a jumble, but I found women’s jeans, a navy hoodie, and plain underwear. Two pairs of running shoes sat side by side on the seat, with socks stuffed into them—clearly a pair for me and a much larger pair for Arthur.

“You changing first?” he asked.

I pulled out my clothes, then handed him the duffel and shoes. “I’ll be quick.”

He gave a nod, and I climbed into the Peugeot’s back seat.

Changing in the car was somehow worse than hiding in the bathroom this morning. How had we gone from him telling me he cared to this? To a silence I couldn’t find a way around. Today, all I got were nods and pointing. Last night, it had been slow strokes of his tongue. His fingers inside me. His cock inside me, bringing me to heights I’d never experienced before.

A pulse ran through my core, and I zipped up the jeans. I had to stop thinking like that, or I was going to combust on the drive back to England.

When I got out, Arthur was in the Land Rover’s back seat. The Peugeot was too small for him to change.

I leaned against the hood of our new car. Above us, a bird perched on the roller coaster’s highest rail, unbothered by the rust and the stillness.

Part of me wanted to peek through the window for a glimpse of bare skin. Not that I needed to. I had a perfectly vivid memory of Arthur Penn’s glorious body from last night. The defined chest, the bruised ribs, how his stomach muscles tightened when I ran my fingers down his⁠—

Stop it!

The door opened.

He stepped out in fresh jeans and a dark green sweater that made his sharp edges seem softer. Probably because it wasn’t covered in blood and dirt. He stowed the Land Rover’s keys in the sun visor, closed the door, and came back to me.

I completely failed at not soaking the sight in. “Whoever did the shopping picked the perfect color for you.”

His gaze dropped briefly to my hoodie. “Blue looks good on you, too.”

The compliment sat a little stiff between us, like neither of us could manage a normal exchange anymore. I tugged at the hem of my new hoodie. “How did Merlin get the sizes so right?”

“He’s a man of many skills.”

“No bra, though.” I groaned inwardly. Why did I point that out?

Arthur averted his eyes, and the flicker of ease I’d coaxed out of him disappeared.