Page 41 of Defeated

We both got a jolt when we realized we were no longer alone in the restaurant. Diners filled most of the tables, and I don’t think either one of us had noticed it, as focused as we were on each other.

We’re smiling at each other when he holds the door open. As it slams shut behind us, a loud bark of sound echoes through the darkening streets, and I jump.

All my fear comes rushing back, and I prepare to run.

Chris slides his arm around my waist, spins us around, and shields me with his body.

He twists his head around, peering up and down the street. “Car backing up. We’re okay.”

Then he looks at me, but he doesn’t let me go.

And even though he has no reason to keep hold of me, I don’t tell him to back up. “That’s the second time you’ve done that,” I whisper.

His body is flush against mine, his eyes drifting down to my mouth, and his arm is strong, warm and secure around my waist. “Done what?”

“Protected me.”

Is that his thumb brushing along the right side of my jaw? And if it is, why is it making me want to angle my head so he will kiss me?

“I seem to have fallen into a habit of wanting to do that,” he admits.

And just like the table in the restaurant, my world shrinks to one where it’s Chris and me.

“Because you don’t think I can look after myself?”

“Because a part of me can’t handle the thought of something happening to you.” He pauses, his eyes on mine, and his thumb brushes my lip. “The same something that knew the stuffed toy would make you happy to have it.”

I’m not used to letting anyone in. It’s been so long since I’ve met anyone I’ve ever wanted to. But in a handful of days, I keep wanting to let Chris in.

“Why would you care about making me happy?”

“I don’t know. If I were to kiss you,” he says, his expression intense, “would that be something that made you happy?”

14

CHRIS

Would that be something that made you happy?

What a stupid fucking question.

What does that even mean?

I don’t even brace myself for the laugh or the slap across the face for saying such a stupid thing or, more deservingly, for manhandling Zoe.

“I’m not sure what would make me happy.” Her comment is soft, her nose wrinkled, and her brow furrowed.

I have no reason to still be pinning her to the Spanish restaurant’s front glass windows, and am, in fact, drawing attention from the waitress who served us. But I still don’t take my arms from around Zoe.

And I have to fight the urge to kiss the wrinkle from her nose.

“It’s the small things that made me happy,” I tell her.

She tilts her head.

A sudden gust of wind whips her hair over her shoulder, the ends brushing my left cheek, and it takes everything in me not to tuck a strand behind her ear. “Like?”

“Staring up at the stars. The quiet. Feel free to tell me how stupid those things are.” I make it a joke when it isn’t.

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