Page 51 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Copy,” Tina drawls back. “Tell Matthew we’ll name it Harry if that helps.”
I almost smile. “Copy.”
“Thank you,” Catherine whispers, hands to her mouth. “Thank you.”
I crouch in front of Matthew. He stares at his sneakers like they betrayed him, sweat pasting his bangs to his forehead.
“Listen,” I tell him. “Parents make promises to survive the day. Sometimes money, or life, or a snake gets in the way. If yourmom could buy you a thousand tickets, she would. That’s not a lie. That’s fact. Cut her a little slack. Do that for me?”
His mouth fights itself, then surrenders. “Yes, Officer.” A quick glance to his mom. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay,” she breathes, hugging him again. “You’re okay. That’s what matters.”
“Tell you what,” I say, standing. “I know a guy who knows a guy. I’ll see if we can conjure a miracle. No promises—but maybe there’s a nosebleed seat with your name on it.”
Their faces light up like someone turned on a lamp inside. Hope is reckless and heavy; I feel it anyway.
“Thank you,” Matthew says, throwing his arms around my middle. My ribs protest. My heart doesn’t.
Back at the cruiser, I pull the door shut and just sit for a beat, forehead against the wheel. Then I dig out my phone and scroll to a number I haven’t used in years—Rico Alvarez, Miami PD, now running private security for half the music venues in the state. I once dragged Rico out of a mess that could’ve ended his career and maybe his freedom; he’s owed me since.
He answers on the second ring. “Vaughn? Thought you were dead.”
“Not dead. Need a miracle, for next weekend, Phoenix. Two Harry Styles tickets—real ones, not nosebleeds. Kid tried to climb out of his life today.”
There’s a low whistle. “Front section. I’ll call a guy. Owe you big anyway.”
“You did.” My voice goes rougher than I expect. “Thank you, Rico.”
“Anytime, brother.”
By the time I hang up, confirmation texts are already pinging through—floor seats, no charge. I exhale, long and shaky, and think about Catherine’s face when I hand them over. Small wins.Sometimes they’re the only thing that keeps the day from eating you alive.
As I head back to the cruiser’s route home, a redhead with a temper and a diner bearing her grandfather’s nickname edges into my thoughts. Something softens that I’ve been keeping hard. I don’t just owe Jasmine an apology. I owe her better than the way I’ve been pretending not to understand.
Okay—maybe an apology too.
***
My couch swallows me whole, like it’s been waiting all day. Brick sprawls on the rug doing math and half-watching a cartoon only kids can parse: a talking gecko with a skateboard and a vendetta against homework. I should send him to his desk. I don’t. It’s good to share the same room, the same air, and not miss anything for once.
“How’s it going?” I nod at the worksheet.
“Fine.” Pencil bobs, TV murmurs. He doesn’t look up, which tells me more than the word does. Sometimesfinemeans fine. Sometimes it’s a guard dog wagging its tail.
My mind spins through the day: Riley’s promise; Matthew in the tree; that kingsnake’s tail. And—like a boomerang I can’t stop—Jasmine. Not the sparring partner with courtroom eyes. The woman who showed up with a glass bowl of scones and wrapped my ribs in bandages like it was obvious. The one who stood at the lake, watched me breathe life back into someone else’s child, and looked like she understood something she hated understanding.
The doorbell shatters the quiet.
Brick and I both twitch toward the hallway. I check the door camera by reflex. Motion alert blooms into a familiar flash of red. Jasmine. On my porch. At nine p.m., in a flowy dress likeshe stepped out of the heat and into a story she doesn’t want to be in.
I open the door.
“Jasmine?” The night wind rushes in between us.
“I’m sorry.” The words spill out like they’re being chased. “I wanted to do this over the phone, but I was too scared. I thought he was going to come after me again and I just didn’t want—”
“Wait.” I lift a hand, a shiver running under my skin. Her eyes are bright and wild. Whatever this is, it isn’t a zoning debate. “What’s going on?”
