Page 8 of Defended By Love

When I’m on solid ground, I should really look up how long it takes Stockholm Syndrome to set in. I can’t imagine any other reason for my sudden zen. Luckily, my bag, along with my phone and my files, is still secure in my vice-like grip, strapped around my chest.

Truly, my neuroticism is my best trait.

Although, with the wind blowing through my hair (my poor elastic must have bit the dust at some point between the building collapsing and my person-propelled flight) and the moonlight on my skin, I close my eyes and pretend for a moment that I’m not a neurotic workaholic. I pretend that I’m someone who does whimsy.

Who does romance.

Call it Stockholm or call it the thrill of being alive rushing through my veins, or maybe even just call it plain old attraction, but there is a pull towards Mr. Spandex that I feel right down to my curling toes.

Between the moonlight and my blushing cheeks, all I know is that I’ve never had a night quite like this. I almost wish it could last forever. I wish that I could cast this moment into amber and treasure it always. I could glance at it and remember what it was to care about a feeling more than productivity for a change.

“This is amazing,” I say, trying to soften my voice from when I called him a kidnapper. “The flying I mean.”

He smiles down at me. “Yeah, I save a ton on transportation costs.”

“That’s—oh…”

“I’m joking,” he says quickly. “I don’t actually like fly to work. I have a car. A nice one. Very shiny.”

Peeking up from the safe cocoon of his arms, I take in his face. He’s biting his lip again and I’m pretty sure he’s blushing, although it’s hard to tell in this light. My heart makes a funny little jolt. As hot as I thought he was earlier, I’m now certain that he’s even cuter.

I just want to reach out and poke his little furrowed lines on his forehead every time he realizes that he’s said something completely awkward.

“Where do you work?” Work is a line of conversation that I’m much more at ease with. I could talk about work all day. I have talked about work all day. Several of my first dates cited it as a reason that they didn’t want to go on a second date.

Mr. Tights sputters nervously, tripping over the beginnings of a multitude of various words. Briefly, he looks up to the sky and shakes his head ever so slightly.

“How about we start at the beginning?” he asks with a charming, practiced smile. A smile that looks nothing like the real one I see dart forward ever now and then. “Maybe we start with names and go from there?”

I nod, kind of digging this whole suave alpha thing he has going on, even if I prefer his bumbling self more.

“Okay,” I say slowly, adjusting myself in his arms to better look at his face. “What’s your name?”

He shoots me a toothpaste-commercial-perfect smile. I practically expect his smile to ping a sparkle at me. “You don’t recognize me?”

“No. And I’m usually pretty good with remembering people because I have a notebook where I record details about them.”

He laughs, like I told a joke. I didn’t.

With another cheesy grin, he takes one of his hands off me and taps the emblem on his chest. It’s a splash of horizontal blue with a red ball of sorts in the middle.

And it clicks.

“Y-you’re…” I stutter, my eyes wide. His smile deepens when he sees the recognition. “You’re the Crimson Streak!”

For the last little bit, this guy has been everywhere on social media and local news sites. Blurry pictures of him saving people or flying around have saturated the digital world, even my admittedly limited one.

He frowns. “I’m the Garnet Defender,” he says a bit dourly. “The guys who started that name—No, that’s not important. What’s important is that I’m the Garnet Defender and I’ve just saved your life.”

Then, he winks.

Is this guy for real?

Then again, the over-the-top charm is equal parts off-putting and attractive. It’s definitely working for me. It’s just not as swoony as his awkwardness.

Whatever. A handsome man in spandex is a handsome man in spandex.

“I’m Hailey Cox,” I say.

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