Page 10 of Mountain Protector

His arms are still around me, and I’m still not moving away. This close, I notice details I’ve been trying not to see. The faint scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, the dark stubble along his jaw that would feel rough under my fingertips, the way his blue eyes have flecks of gray near the pupils.

“This is weird,” I say before I can stop myself.

“What is?”

“This.” I make a vague gesture between us. “You working for my dad. Following me around. Now... this.”

His arms loosen, giving me space without fully letting go.

“I don’t work for your dad, Ruby. Hunt Security does. I work for them.”

“Semantics.”

“Details,” he corrects. “Important ones.”

I step back, and his arms fall away. The absence of his warmth is immediate, but I ignore it. “Still weird.”

Clay watches me for a moment, then nods. “Fair enough. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m here to keep you safe.”

“From falling shelves?”

“From whatever comes.”

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly chilled despite the shop’s steady temperature.

“Well, crisis averted. You can go back to... whatever it is you do when you’re not saving me from rogue furniture.”

Instead of moving away, he glances at his watch.

“It’s past noon. How about we get some lunch? I think we could both use a break.”

My first instinct is to refuse. To insist I’m fine, that I have work to do, clients to prepare for. But the thought of sitting alone in the shop with my jangled nerves makes my stomach clench.

“Okay,” I say, aiming for nonchalance. “But I pick the place.”

* * *

The walkto Piney Creek Diner takes less than five minutes, but it feels longer with Clay walking beside me. I’m hyperaware of his presence—the way he shortens his stride to match mine, how he positions himself between me and the street, the occasional brush of his arm against my shoulder that sends little sparks through my body.

“So this is the famous Piney Creek Diner,” Clay says as we approach the cheerful blue building with its vintage neon sign. “I’ve driven past it a few times but haven’t stopped in yet.”

“Best food in town,” I tell him as he holds the door open for me. The familiar scent of coffee and homemade pie wraps around me like a hug. “And it’s owned by my best friend, so I’m completely biased.”

The lunch rush is in full swing, but there’s an empty booth in the corner.

I lead Clay through the maze of tables, nodding at the regulars who recognize me. I feel their curious glances at Clay, and I know the town gossip mill will be churning by dinner time. Small towns and their obsession with new faces. Especially when that face looks like it was carved by a sculptor with a thing for dangerous-looking men.

We slide into the booth, and I’m suddenly very aware of how small the table is, how our knees almost touch underneath. Clay’s presence seems to fill the entire space, making it hard to focus on anything else.

“Your friend’s place is nice,” he says, looking around at the retro décor and the black and white photos of the diner’s history that line the walls. “Has character.”

“Lainey inherited it from her dad after he passed away a few years ago,” I say, pride for my friend evident in my voice. “She’s kept all the charm but updated everything else. The place was practically falling apart when she took over.”

Clay’s eyes return to mine, and there’s something in them that makes my stomach flip.

I clear my throat. “How did a guy like you end up in a place like Cooper Heights?”

Clay grins. “A guy like me?”

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