Page 56 of Red Flags Only

He smiles, soft and fleeting, then digs a hand into my hair and drags it through. “You did, and quite beautifully. Still. Lawn, meet bleach.”

Um. “Do you think that has more to do with your own personal satisfaction than with her getting what she deserves? If she leaves us alone, then I think her crummy, horrible life with her crummy, horrible attitude is pretty much punishment enough.”

“Disagree,” he replies, hand coming up again to make another journey through my hair. “Hard disagree, actually. She’s getting bleached.”

I tip my head to ask the ceiling, “Do my efforts count for nothing?”

Jove uses his hand in my hair to tilt my head backtoward him. “Your efforts mean everything,” he says. “I’m so proud of you, I could burst. You should have seen her while you were gone, pouting on the sidewalk like a little kid who’s been told no for the first time ever. It was glorious, the way you shut her down. But, Lyra-love, people like that? They go home to their little coward caves, and they recover. A hit like that is nothing compared to what they usually dole out. You cow them, and they’re embarrassed for a little while, but then? They get angry. They remember how crappy of a person they are, and they come back, swinging their hardest.” He pauses, the calluses of his hand pressing into my cheek as it rests there. “Unless, of course, you destroy all their worldly possessions and remind them, often and harsh, that you’re the bigger baddie. That starts with ruining her pristine grass. Then continues as I do a little more research and find out just what will hit her the hardest. Car troubles? House troubles? Job troubles?” He shrugs. “I’ll figure it out and I’ll make it happen, and the result will be that she never messes with you again. That she never even so much aslooksat you again.”

His forehead hits mine.

“You protected me out there, Ly. I saw it, and I’m grateful. Won’t even protect yourself but me? Big, scary me? You jumped right in. No hesitation. No thought.” His breath shudders in, then out, hitting my face in a mix of peppermint and gratefulness. “I treasure that, Lyra. Forever I treasure you loving me enough to stick up to one of your living nightmares for me. It means the world to me. So now I’m going to love you right back by making sure you never have to be in that situation again.”

Ah. Right.

Right.

I sniffle. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips tipping up. “Oh.”

Clearing my throat, I step away, out of his embrace and into the cold, empty space behind me. I wipe the wetness from my eyes and decide that he can bleach Chrissy’s lawn if he wants to. I guess. Who am I to argue? Maybe he can do my mom’s lawn while he’s at it.

He chuckles when I tell him so, drawing my attention away from my dress sleeves and back to him.

I wince.

I’d forgotten I had a days’ worth of dirt on me, some of which is now smudged on Jove’s forehead. And hands. And arms. And shirt.

He’s a very tactile man, I’ve learned, and it shows right now more than ever.

“Um,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry, but I seem to have gotten you dirty.”

He glances down, then shrugs. “It’ll wash.” His eyes dart to me. “Then you will, too. I’ll take the bathroom first, then you can shower.”

I nod. An excellent plan.

That is, until Jove getsoutof the bathroom, and I find out that part of the plan involved him losing his shirt.

“You’re naked!” I squawk, looking away before the flash of exposed skin and ink can imprint itself on my mind. “What are you doing?”

“My shirt is wet,” he says. “I got the dirt out before it could stain, but the shirt is soaking now. I hung it up over your shower rod. I’d throw it in the dryer, but I don’t want to dry in any spots I might have missed and set the stains.”

I gulp, flicking my eyes in his direction, then away. “That makes sense,” I squeak.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks. “I don’t have another shirt with me, or I’d throw one on, and I don’t think even the oversized ones you’ve said you like to sleep inwould fit me?”

No, they most certainly would not. I buy oversized, not gargantuan sized.

“It’s okay!” I lie. “You’re a guy. Guys sometimes don’t wear shirts. Totally normal in our culture – even in public! Which this isn’t. So definitely very, very fine.”

“Ly-”

“I’m going to shower now! Make yourself at home!”

As if he hasn’t already.

I scurry past him, eyes averted, and lock myself in the bathroom.

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