Page 37 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
I look at the clock. Nine-oh-three. Anyone who rings a bell at nine-oh-three is either selling something illegal or about to change your night.
“Stay in bed,” I call softly down the hall, and check the peephole.
It’s the second one.
Jasmine stands under my porch light with a glass bowl cradled in both hands like an offering. The world tilts half a degree.
I open the door.
“I brought scones,” she says, bright and awkward at once, like she practiced the line and now wants it back. Then her eyes drop from my face to my collarbone to the place where the Henley tee is doing a poor job of hiding the new story on my ribs. “What the—”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, because if I askHow did you find my addressit will sound like I don’t want her here, and that’s not exactly true.
“What happened to you?” she counters, because she is constitutionally incapable of answering my questions in the order I ask them.
“I asked first,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “What are you doing here.”
Something flickers across her face—annoyance, then concern, then something that’s none of my business. “Brick likes scones,” she says. “You said. I made a batch.” She lifts the bowl like proof. “Also, they have extra calcium because Riley says science. So. Here.”
For a second, I don’t know what to do with any of this: the bowl, the woman, the day. Pain flares when I shift my weight and I fail to hide the wince.
“Oh, my heavens,” she says, softer now. “What happened?” And she makes her way through the doorway.
The answer is complicated and none of it is the dumb macho thing she accused me of, and all of it is something I’m not proud of.
“This,” I say, because it’s what I have, “is going to be a long night.”
Chapter twelve
Jasmine
A shudder runs down my spine when I take him in properly.
He’s a mess. Not dramatic, movie-type bleeding—worse. The kind of damage that makes a person move like each breath owes rent. Tiny bruises spot his face. The way his eyes glass over when he shifts tells me the real trouble is under the shirt.
“Are you—are you hurt?” My voice comes out too soft. He’s in a white tee and pajama pants, looking like he tried to pretend pain to death and pain said,cute.
He shifts and winces. “No.”
“Oh, Asher.” My hand lifts before my brain can stop it.
“Don’t—” he starts, but the word turns into a groan when even that small reach lights him up. He’s not stopping me in this condition. I lift the hem of his shirt.
There it is: angry purple swelling across his ribs and abdomen, a constellation of blooming bruises, a couple shallow cuts that look like they met a rough surface fast. Heat radiates off him.
My other hand goes weak around the bowl of scones. I set it on the floor before I drop it and really make this night historic.
“Asher, what is this?”
“It’s none of your business,” he whispers, and even his stubborn sounds tired.
“Yeah, I’m not playing stoic statue with you.” I point at the door. “We’re going to the clinic. Shoes.”
“No.” He’s more adamant that time, which would be impressive if it weren’t so infuriating.
“What—why?”
“I can’t leave Brick alone.”
