Page 50 of Opening Strain

“For your birthday,” I supply. “Not letting the birthday girl pay for her own celebration. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

Her hand rubs her throat. “I’m not sure.”

I don’t respond to her quiet words, which provide me with a ray of hope. Standing, we walk over to the coat check, and I help her pull hers up her shoulders. My hands rest on them for amoment before taking my new winter coat and sliding it up my own arms.

She turns and places my scarf around my neck, tugging on the ends. I have the sudden urge to taste her lips, which I bet are better than any of the amazing food we enjoyed here.

I reach out to caress her cheek.

A teenage boy wearing a jacket proclaiming him to be the valet approaches. “Can I get your ticket?”

Her lips purse, as if she’s holding herself back from something we both want. She turns from me, her hand slipping into her purse and retrieving a small piece of paper. “Here you go. I’ll wait for my car. Take your time.”

Before I can object, she’s out the door. Perhaps running from the feelings swirling between us?

I huff a breath and ready myself for the ride home. I know Darren placed her on theDo Not Fucklist, but does it really still apply now? I mean, it’s not like I’m stealing her away from him. When we arrive at my rental, maybe I can invite her in for a nightcap?

Smirking, I open the restaurant’s door to a feeding frenzy. Paparazzi swarm Jenna at the valet stand, screaming at her.

“Are you out with Bennett Hardy?”

“How do you know the rock star?”

“Where did you meet him?”

I step forward and the vultures latch on, screaming my name. Asking more questions about what I’m doing in Aroostook and who the blonde with me is. At least they haven’t figured out Jenna’s identity. The need to protect her swells within me.

Raising my hand, I address the crowd. “I’m in the Hamptons for some R&R before Untamed Coaster goes out on our new tour.”

My words don’t seem to satisfy them, though, as they continue pummeling me with more questions. At least I drew their attention away from Jenna. How did they know she was with me, anyway?

The attendant drives her car up the drive, inching forward so asto avoid the media gaggle. Personally, I wouldn’t mind seeing a few of them run down. Or at least jumping out of the way.

Finally, the harried valet leaps out of the car. I glance at Jenna, who’s surrounded by reporters, like I am. Unlike me, all the color’s drained from her face and her eyes have glazed over. Despite knowing how much this will suck, I brush past them and walk—faking a normal gait through clenched teeth—toward the driver’s seat. She’s in no condition to drive up the street, let alone all the way to my rental.

Ignoring the paps, I approach the valet and pass him a good tip. “Help her into the car.”

“Yes, sir.” The kid glances at the money I handed him. “Will do, right away sir.”

At least one problem solved. With a final wave to the media, I slip into the driver’s seat, blocking the stabbing pain emanating from my muscle pull. Seated, I close the door, push my seat backward, and click my seat belt while the noise raises by decibels when the passenger side door opens.

Paps continue to throw questions at Jenna, who remains immobile. I need to get her out of here, so I honk the horn four long times. My distraction works because she hops into the car and slams her door shut, despite reporters’ hands trying to keep it open. I push the button and lock them all out.

“Ready?”

My question isn’t met with any answer—snarky or otherwise.

This is bad. I put the car into drive and move forward at an even pace. Several of the reporters jump out of my way, which gives me a small bit of satisfaction.

When we turn onto the main street, I let out my breath and place a hand on my thigh, where I massage the throbbing pull. The adrenaline from dealing with the paps is replaced with the agony I’m putting my groin pull through. Driving requires me to use my right leg, and my thigh protests.

The need to protect this fierce, formidable,fragilewoman outpaces my own injury. “How are you doing, Jenna?” I dare not switch my eyes from the road since I haven’t driven in...months. This task, combined with my spasming leg, requires all of my attention.

We drive for a couple of blocks before I realize I have no idea where I’m going. “Jenna?”

Her head swivels toward me, which I count as a win. However, her distant expression warns of her mental state. “Can you please set up the GPS?” While I don’t want to waste a moment of driving any place we don’t have to be, now’s not the time to admit this fact.

When she doesn’t speak, I shut off the headlights, turn down what’s marked as a “Dead End,” and stop on the side. I want to pull her into my arms and tell her this will pass. Hell, I simply want to hold her. But my leg hurts too fucking much for me to do anything other than focus on getting us home. Satisfaction rumbles through me when a passel of reporters drive by on the main road.

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