Page 63 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
I take photos of everything and forward them to Asher with my location, the time-stamps, and three exclamation points that I delete, then put back, then delete again. Riley pings:
Riley: Want me to come over? I can bring my cardboard box and my mean face.
Me: Stay put. I’m fine. (Lying.) Asher’s on his way.
Riley: Fine. But if the quail guy shows up with backup, text me a code word.
Me: Code word = “artichoke.”
Riley: Too obvious. Make it “prom.”
Me: Prom. Got it.
I tuck the envelope into a zip bag, label it with the time in thick Sharpie—because Asher’sofficernessis contagious—and set it by the door. The house is suddenly too quiet for how loud my head is.
No more handing out free space in my brain. No more letting Harold write the script.
I square my shoulders, tell my blood to simmer down, and go find the hottest water the shower will allow. In the steam, panic unwinds into something sharper: anger, and a plan.
Screw this.
From now on, I do things my way, even if it means confronting Harold Swanson myself. I’m tired of hiding. When Asher gets back, I’m going to tell him.
And right when I finally manage to think about anything else, the image from last night flickers back through the fog: the warm press of his hand around my wrist, the way his mouth found mine like we’d both been holding our breath for weeks.
I kissed Asher Vaughn.
And the part that makes my skin hum? I liked it.
I never want to stop kissing him—and I have no idea what I’m going to do about that.
Chapter nineteen
Asher
“Do you like her?”
The question comes out of left field so fast I almost forget I’m driving.
We’re rolling toward school after my night shift, doing that dance where you blink a little too long and tell your own eyelids to get it together. Night rotation always hurts more on day two. The streets are early-morning empty—sprinklers ticking, a dog trotting with a leash in its mouth like it fired its owner.
“Like who?” I say, stalling for time and caffeine I don’t have.
“Jasmine,” Brick says, like there was a multiple-choice and he picked the only answer.
My foot twitches on the brake. “What are you talking about?”
“I was asking if you like her, and you didn’t answer. Do you not like her?”
His question ricochets around my very tired skull. I give myself a beat. The answer settled last night, right after the kiss—clean, bright, the kind of jolt that pulled me through a whole shift better than bad coffee.
I do like Jasmine.
“I think I do, yeah,” I say. I’ve never lied to my son and I’m not starting with this.
He grins. “I like her too. She’s nice and she knows how to talk to you.”
“Knows how to keep me on my toes, you mean,” I say, turning into the lot. And I mean it. Jasmine’s a live wire—stubborn in a way that makes you want to be better just to keep up.
