Page 56 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Harold—”
“You don’t strike me as a photo-on-the-card guy. Minimalist, I bet.”
“Harold, listen to me—”
“Now Brick, on the other hand—”
“Shut the hell up!” The knot in my gut jerks tight. He’s toeing lines he doesn’t want to cross.
“Does your son know you have a thing for the diner lady?”
“I don’t have a thing for Jasmine,” I snap.
My mouth stumbles on the last word. I can feel him clock it. Something about saying it out loud feels…false.
But I’m not lying. I’m not. I just started to see her as a friend.
A potential friend.
“Right. Keep telling yourself that,” he says, bored now. “Anything else, Officer?”
I stare him down. “Listen to me. I don’t know how you do things where you’re from, but this is a different town. You’re on my radar. If you so much as breathe wrong near her—or hurt as much as a hair on her head—I’ll slap the cuffs on your wrists faster than you can buy your way out of it.”
His eyes light. He smiles, small and sharp. “And you say you don’t have a thing for Jasmine.”
“Goodbye, Harold.”
I turn and navigate out, praying I won’t have to ask a butler for directions after that grand exit.
“I mean, I don’t blame you,” he calls. “Those cheekbones are to die for.”
I don’t stop. There’s nothing to hear. He’s wrong. I don’t have feelings for Jasmine Wallace.
I don’t have feelings for Jasmine Wallace.
***
“Are you serious right now?” The words fly out before I can temper them. The last thing I expect when I walk through my front door is Jasmine saying she wants to leave the house.
“Weren’t you scared out of your mind a few days ago? Has that changed?” I ask.
It’s barely noon—the end of my shift. On days like this I’d usually snag an extra patrol or some desk catch-up, but with her here I’ve been coming straight home. To check on her. To make sure those guys haven’t tried anything.
“I have to go,” she says, distress threading every syllable. I’ve never heard her voice like this. It scares me.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks up. “It’s my mom. She’s at Kinsley, and the doctor says she’s asking for me.”
“Can it wait?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “I’m sure your mom will understand if you don’t want to leave the house right now.”
“You still don’t get it.” Her voice frays. “This is a big deal. My mom doesn’t exactly—” She stops, swallowing hard.
“Doesn’t exactly what?” I prompt gently.
“Look. She has dementia, okay? She hasn’t recognized me in a while. This is huge, and I can’t just let some guy stop me from seeing her.”
The frustration, the grief—it’s all there in her eyes. She doesn’t want to risk it either; she has to. I want to put a hand on her shoulder and promise I’ll keep her safe. That I’ll be there—always. Instead, I take a breath and make the decision for both of us.
“Fine,” I say. “But if you go to Kinsley House, I’m coming with you.”
