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I’ve taken care of myself for years. I know how to fight, disappear digitally, ruin someone’s life with a keystroke. I don’t need saving. But there’s a difference between needing a savior and knowing somebody has your back.

Gage scans the club again. With his broad shoulders set between me and the direction that stranger disappeared, he may as well be wearing a cape.

I touch his arm, and he focuses on me. “You’re walking me to my car tonight.”

His expression softens, barely. “Princess, I was going to do that anyway.”

For the first time in years, I don’t feel alone.

CHAPTER 12

Gage

A week passes without another clear sighting of the man from Saint Violet. I almost convince myself that’s good news. Almost.

Three days ago, I thought I saw the same salt-and-pepper head across the parking lot at Lincoln Park Zoo.

Fortunately, Jubilee hasn’t refused a single ride home. She lets me walk her to her car without going all Miss Independent. We both know she can take care of herself. But it means something when she lets me do it anyway.

Tonight, she sits in my passenger seat, talking animatedly about a woman at the bar who tried to order a martini without vermouth, olives, or any understanding of what a martini is.

Her hair is down again. I’ve noticed that happening more often. The black dye is fading faster around the edges now, leaving streaks of copper and gold framing her cheeks, and she hasn’t rushed to cover them. Her shoulders ride easier too, like the sky stopped pressing down on them. Her eyes are brighter. Amethysts, glittering. Instead of bracing herself, she now moves like whimsical poetry.

I’m not arrogant enough to believe I did that alone. I’m just fucking grateful to be part of it.

“And then,” she continues, “this woman looks dead on at me and says, ‘Can’t you make it without the alcohol?’”

I glance over. “A virgin martini.”

“No. Because she also wanted me to replace the gin with tequila.”

I wince. “That’s a crime.”

“Thank you!” She throws her hands up.

“Did you have her removed?”

“No, but I charged her eighteen dollars.”

“Justice survives.”

I’d love to preserve her grin in amber.

As I pull into the central courtyard, Jubilee glances toward her apartment, then back at me. “You know you don’t have to keep buying me dinner every time we go somewhere.”

“I enjoyed the service.”

“You had one drink.”

“It was exceptional.”

She presses her lips together like she’s trying not to encourage me. “You’re ridiculous.”

I’m learning she never expects anything because I have money. But when I spoil her, she lets me. And every single time, she says thank you like I’ve handed her the moon.

As far as I’m concerned, someone should have been spoiling this woman years ago. And if she occasionally expresses her gratitude by climbing me like a tree and showing me what wanted touch feels like, I consider that a perfectly reasonable compensation.

She unbuckles her seat belt, then leans across the console. My mouth finds hers, and I grasp hold of her waist, lower, to those stockings I’m convinced she wears solely to ruin my productivity. Still kissing her, I slide her skirt up and touch the warmth between her thighs.