Page 30 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
They obey. For now.
“Down.”
The sirens are on the block now—loud enough to rattle the diner’s windows. The bell over the door stutters on its hook like a nervous tick.
“I said down.”
They go to their knees. The clean-shaven one shifts like he’s thinking about being stupid. Asher shifts a fraction more and the thought dies.
Two more heartbeats and the room fills with blue. Officers flood in—Quick first, Joel right behind—and it’s cuffs and rights and the scrape of leather on tile. Asher steps back, gun still on the men until the cuffs click. Then he breathes. Then—only then—he looks at me.
The flutter in my stomach is so sudden it’s almost a laugh. Which is deranged, considering the floor is littered with guns and adrenaline. But there it is: a dizzy, stupid warm spill of relief that feels like it might knock me over if I let it.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough with the sandpaper edge of controlled fear.
I nod too fast. “You saved me.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Of course it wasn’t. I swallow. “I’m fine.”
He scans the room, habit and duty, and then holsters and steps closer to the counter. Two officers haul the men up and out; someone bags the guns; someone else radios a code word I don’t understand but makes my shoulders drop an inch.
“You could’ve been hurt,” I say, the words slipping out hot before I can tidy them. “They had guns—”
“And now they don’t,” he says evenly. “And you’re unhurt.”
“You should’ve waited for backup.”
“I did,” he says, nodding toward the door through which sirens are ebbing. His eyes cut to mine, the heat in them different now—steady, assessing. “And I kept them from using you to keep me outside.”
Right. Stop being mad at the person who did exactly what he’s trained to do. I press my palms against the counter until I feel laminate give a little. “I hated that you were in here.”
He huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh. “Get in line.”
We stare at each other for a beat too long. The scar above his brow looks sharper when his jaw is tight like that. I realizeI’m staring, and the flood in my stomach has the nerve to slosh warmer.
Focus, Jasmine.
“What did they want?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I truly don’t. It wasn’t till I saw their guns that my brain connected the dots labeledweird bikeandempty streetanddumb bad decisionsinto something calledrobbery.
“Lying to me won’t help,” he says, not unkindly. “I saw them this morning—posted up near your wall. I didn’t like it then. Like it less now.”
“You saw them?” My voice jumps. “And you didn’t—”
“Arrest them for existing on a bike? No.” He lifts a brow. “We don’t cuff people for wearing matching jackets.”
“Maybe add it to the list,” I mutter. “They literally just tried to rob me.”
His mouth curves, just barely. “They didn’t.”
“Thanks to your macho fighting abili…”
“Mytraining,” he cuts in.
“—ties,” I finish, refusing to give him the last word even when he probably deserves three of them.
