Page 53 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Yes.”
“And you’re still not selling.”
“No.” I lift my chin. “You know what happens if he gets Scotty’s. It’s not just one deed. It’s a domino. I won’t be the first tile.”
He studies me for a long beat, hazel eyes clearer than I’ve ever seen them. Then he exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “I get it now.”
I blink. “What?”
“I understand what you’re trying to do,” he says, and when he says it he moves—finally—to the couch beside me. Not touching. Close enough for his warmth to lap against my arm. “It isn’t justnostalgia for the town.It’s quality of life. If people like Harold and Hartley buy out streets and punch holes in the ground, the folks who can least afford it get displaced first. I…should’ve seen that sooner.”
Somewhere in my rib cage, a flock of tiny birds goes berserk. “Are we in an alternate universe?”
“Probably.” The corner of his mouth tilts. “It doesn’t mean I’m signing off on trespass and obstruction. I’m still me. But I get your why.”
Of course he has to say that. Of course he does. It still lands like a hand around my throat loosening.
We sit there inside a small bubble of quiet. I study the scar over his eyelid, how it animates when his eyes narrow. He looks at my mouth. I look at his. The bubble goes prickly.
He’s the one who pops it. “You can stay here,” he says abruptly, as if he had to say it before he lost courage. “For now. Guest room’s made up. Harold won’t try his luck in a cop’s house.”
My heart does a dumb little skid. “I—I can’t ask you to do that. I was going to crash with Riley—”
“Didn’t you text me that Riley ‘basically lives in a cardboard box’?” He arches a brow.
“Figuratively.” (Mostly.)
“You’ll be more comfortable here. Brick won’t mind.” He nods toward the hallway. “He’ll probably demand scones as rent.”
I can picture it too easily: waking up in the palm-print guest room with the old map of Biscayne Bay on the wall; the smell of coffee; Brick’s sleepy hair; Asher moving through his kitchen, all broad shoulders and quiet competence. The picture is dangerous. It is also safe.
“We’ll go to the station tomorrow,” he continues. “File for a restraining order. I know it’s a thin shield, but it’s something. If he violates it, I’ll have leverage.”
“So the plan is…hope he tries me again so you can nail him.” I grimace.
“The plan is to make sure you’re not alone when he decides to test boundaries,” he says, steady. “And to make sure there are documented boundaries to test.”
I lean back into the couch and stare around his living room. Back when I was twenty, I used to think the brave choice was always the hard one. Sometimes the brave choice is the practical one. Sometimes it is saying yes when your pride wants to say no.
“Oh, screw it.” I drop my head into my hands, then lift it again with a thin, wobbly smile. “I guess I could stay a while.”
“You sure?” His eyes light up—quick, contained—like a porch bulb clicking on at dusk.
“Yes. What’s the worst that could possibly happen?” I spread my hands.
He deadpans, “You snore. Brick teaches you every theme song toDog Rangers. I arrest you in my own living room for stealing my cafecito pot.”
“Ha-ha.” I nudge his knee with mine. “Ground rules. If I’m living here, you arenotallowed to flash your badge at me when we argue about oil rigs.”
“And you are not allowed to offer me pity discounts.” He points at me with the wineglass.
“Fine. But only because Brick is my favorite Vaughn.”
He tries not to smile; fails.
I glance toward the hallway. “Does he…mind me? I don’t want to make anything weird.”
“He likes you,” Asher says simply. “You’re loud.” He tips his head. “I mean that as a compliment.”
