Page 65 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Did I do something? Did Brick?” The questions sprint out.
“This isn’t about you or Brick.”
“Is this about the—” I can’t believe I’m saying this like I’m in a bad decades-old movie— “the kiss?”
Silence expands between us until I feel ridiculous standing in it. I put my hands on the counter so she won’t see them shake.
“If this is about the kiss,” I say, voice uneven, “I… I need you to know that I—”
Her eyes lift and hold me. “You what?”
“I want more.” It comes out quieter than I expect. “I’m in love with you, Jasmine. Honestly, I think I’ve been in love with you for a while, because you’ve had an effect on me from the start.”
Something in her face softens. It’s there. I didn’t imagine it. So, I keep going, because I’m an idiot but also because it’s the truth.
“I want to keep kissing you. I don’t want you to leave. It’s dangerous out there. The only reason Harold’s guys haven’t tried here is because of the security measures I put in place. Please. You don’t have to go.”
Another silence, louder. I can hear the refrigerator click on, the neighbor’s sprinkler start up.
“Look…” she says finally, careful. “I— I need some time to think about this.”
It isn’t no. But it isn’t the thing my raw, hopeful heart wanted either. I nod, because that’s what adults do. We nod and then we go to work. The evening went by, but I don’t recall breathing much. What does she want to think about? Was my confession too much? Too soon? Too whatever? I lay awake thinking until my eyes betray me and close.
***
The next morning, I decided to remain on patrol duty instead of desk work. I want to keep my eyes on the town. “Dispatch, 211 in progress at 7th and Clarkson.” The cruiser’s siren splits the afternoon air. Robbery call—Yellow Stones, the little jewelry store a few blocks from Scotty’s. I’m the closest unit. “En route,” I say.
On the radio, Marla is a metronome. “Copy. Be advised, we’ve had three prank calls this week. Caller ID blocked.”
David cuts in: “2-1-7 is on Peyton with a stalled hay truck. Literally made of hay. Send help.”
Another voice: “We got a chicken versus school bus situation on Mill. Chicken winning.”
Small town, big noise.
Yellow Stones Jewelry usually runs like a bank—double locks, cameras, an owner who looks like she sleeps on the showroom floor. The minute I see the storefront, the itch flares between my shoulders. No broken glass. No panicked customers. I park across the street and kill the siren, let the engine idle low.
I think, stupidly, about calling Jasmine. About saying, Don’t hate me for saying it. Just sit with it. About asking, Are you safe? Instead, I breathe, count four in, four out, and get out of the car.
Inside, the A/C hits like a slap. The cases gleam. A woman in her forties at the register—sharp suit, sharper gaze—goes wider-eyed when she sees the uniform.
“Afternoon, ma’am. Officer Vaughn. We received a 9-1-1 call about a robbery in progress. Is that correct?”
She looks at my holster, back at me. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure if there was a robbery, I’d notice,” she says, bone-dry. “The only thing being robbed here is my patience with diamond prices.”
I give a tight nod, thumb the door open, and step back into the heat.
“Dispatch, negative on Yellow Stones. No 211. Likely a prank,” I report, popping the patrol car door.
I know I’m cornered before I’m even fully seated.
A man fills the passenger window and aims a pistol at my cheekbone, cold and indifferent. He slips into the passenger seat.
“Drive,” he says.
