Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
I shut the door behind me and clasp her shoulders, urging her back inside and leading her to the sofa.
Her whole body shakes. Some trauma response.
Shit.
I’m no shrink, but is this a panic attack?
Thankfully, I’ve never had my nerves fried before. The worst of the carnage in Syria that chewed up other guys just left me numb. There are also days when I wonder if icy, detached calm is my trauma.
“Hey.” I smooth a hand down her back, warming her. “Breathe for me. It’s okay. He’s not coming back.”
She gulps air so fast she coughs, her breath rattling. It’s like feeling years of pent-up emotion working its way out.
“You . . . you shouldn’t have butted in,” she whispers. “Not with him.”
Seriously?
That’s where she’s going with this?
Call me an asshole, but when any dude threatens a woman at her house, I’m not the type to stand there and watch like I’m at a damn petting zoo.
“You asked him to leave. He didn’t. What choice did I have?”
“I had it under control, Brady.” Her voice hardens, but I can sense the doubt.
“You did the best you could. I never doubted that. But I saw the way he got up in your face. You needed a hand, Lena.”
My gaze sweeps around her small house, taking it in. It’s a small place in an old working-class neighborhood. A cheap fixer-upper from the 1950s or maybe something she inherited. The kind of home that’s no longer cheap at all in a city that seems like it’s racing to break new records for eye-popping prices.
It’s cozy and clean enough, though. Also, it smells like her—that subtle apple-blossom scent mixed with spitfire that’s driving me mad.
“I hate this. Hate it. I don’t cry like this, I swear.” She sniffs loudly, wiping a shaky hand across her face.
Anyone else would say she looks like hell, but to me, all I see is heaven.
Where the fuck is my mind?
If Nancy ever cried—and I’m not certain she ever does for good reason—you can bet she rehearsed being a pretty crier.
Lena keeps trembling.
Her appearance is obviously the last thing on her mind. Not with this fountain of grief overflowing. But somehow, it just makes her more appealing—seeing her so vulnerable.
“Here.” I wipe her cheeks with my cuffs. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure. Now try telling me in a way I might believe.”
She gives me a feeble laugh, which still feels like a victory.
“Why are you here?” she whispers.
“I came to meet you. Remember?”
Her face blanks. “I really don’t. What is it today?”
“We have plans tomorrow. I wanted to discuss them and avoid any surprises.” And honestly, it’s getting harder than it should be for a single day to slip by without seeing her.
That’s not something I’ll be saying to her face anytime soon, no.
It’s still a harsh fact I don’t want to admit.
But seeing her like this, raw and helpless, when I’ve seen how fiercely she defends herself strikes fire in my blood.
I don’t want to put a name on it, or even think too hard.
I just know if that ugly swaggering peacock fuck ever threatens her again in front of me, I’ll be turning his face into a sack of gravel.
Screw the consequences.
He should’ve thought harder before he tried to put his hands on her.
Her breath steadies a little now. Still coming too fast, still not even, but not the panicked gasps I heard earlier.
Good.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you did, Brady. I just . . . I don’t want you getting involved with him,” she says quietly, averting her eyes. “He’s not your problem. You’re paying me to look pretty and put on a show, not to hold my baggage.”
Like hell.
But that’s an argument for later.
For now, I need to get her out of this place.
What if he comes back and I’m not here?
I have a sneaking suspicion she won’t go easy, though.
“Feel like getting some fresh air?” I touch her back lightly. “How about getting out of here and heading back to my place? I was thinking pizza tonight.”
“Takeout again?”
“Or I can cook, but I’m not sure you’re ready for that. It’s the one skill I didn’t grow up with. I’ve been trying to teach myself the last couple years, but I still burn thirty percent of my meals that don’t get thrown in a slow cooker.”
“Only one skill?”
“I was a precocious little rat.”
To my relief, she laughs again, sad but genuine.
With one hand lingering on her back, I help her up. “Come on. I’ve got a car waiting out front.”
“Luis? Hang on. I don’t want him to see me like this . . .”
“Believe it or not, I drove myself. I can operate a car, you know.”
“Wow! This must be like your third time now? Promise me I’m not risking a broken neck if I ride with you.”