Page 8 of Jenna's Protector

The only light is that I’m no longer seventeen.

No longer prey.

No longer naive.

No longer vulnerable.

Speaking of regulars—I try to shift my thoughts—one regular is running late. He’s the brightest spot of my day.

My sweater keeps slipping off one shoulder and I pull it back into place. Loose-fitting clothes are a strategic choice. They create a barrier between me and the world, a gentle reminder that I’m no longer strutting my stuff in the suffocating grip of haute couture, where every stitch and seam screams perfection, and every flaw is magnified a thousand-fold.

My friends finish their morning caffeine infusion and say their goodbyes. I glance at my watch, noting that Detective Jackson, who is usually prompt, is late.

“See you later, Jenna.” Frank waves as he holds the door for his girls.

“Stay safe,” I call out as they leave.

I spend the next few minutes tidying up, refilling stock, and checking inventory.

The chime over the door suddenly rings. My breath catches, and my hands still.

I don’t need to look up to know who it is. My pulse quickens at the familiar rhythm of Detective Carter Jackson’s gait as he slowly strolls from the door to stand on the other side of my counter.

Max, his German Shepherd, sits obediently by his side, tail thumping against the floor, eyes bright—nose going a mile a minute as he checks out all the wonderful smells in my coffee shop.

“Morning, Jenna.” Carter’s deep, rumbly voice sends shivers down my spine.

It’s delicious and decadent all at once. He leans against the counter, his presence filling the space, his eyes locked on mine.

“Detective Jackson,” I greet him, a smile playing on my lips. “And good morning to you too, Max.”

I lean over to give Max a treat from the jar I keep behind the counter for our four-footed friends. Max accepts it gratefully, all lips and slobber but no teeth. His tail wags so hard that his entire body shakes.

I turn my attention back to Carter. “The usual today?”

“You know it,” he chuckles, the sound warming me from the inside out. “I don’t know how I’d start my day without your perfect brew.”

My cheeks flush at the compliment. “Well, I aim to please. Double shot espresso, no sugar, a splash of cold water, right?”

“Spot on.” His smile is disarming, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m impressed you remember.”

“I remember everything about you—I mean, about your order.” I stumble over my words, mentally kicking myself for the slip. “I only meant—I know what you like.”

“You do?”

“You like your coffee strong and straightforward with a bit of a twist, Detective.”

“Please, call me Carter.”

“As you wish, Detective.”

If it weren’t for my past, I would’ve jumped his bones already. I just think a man of the law would have problems sleeping with a murderer.

As I prepare his drink, his gaze on me is intense and unwavering. We do this dance every morning—the banter, the lingering looks, and the unspoken words hanging between us.

My mind wanders, imagining what it would be like to have those strong hands on my waist, those lips on mine…

“Here you go.” I hand him his espresso, and our fingers brush against each other.

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