Page 98 of Courageous Hearts

Warmth infuses my chest, even though I’m not all that proud of the reasons for my quick reflexes. “I told you I used to get into fights,” I remind him gently.

“Yeah, but damn, Bo. I thought you meant you were, like, kids throwing punches. You had moves.”

I chuckle. “We were pretty scrappy,” I admit.

Jameson shakes his head, which results in another small wince. I think he says “adore you,” but it’s so quiet, I can’t tell for sure.

Dee catches my attention then, waving her hand in the air. “Paramedics are here,” she says.

“Oh, God,” Jameson groans, closing his eyes again. “This is mortifying.”

“Shh,” I tell him gently, threading my fingers through his hair. My other hand is still holding the napkin to his cheek, although the cut didn’t look deep. I doubt it was more than a scratch. “You just sit tight.”

Jameson exhales, opening his eyes. He looks up at me, brown gaze so very warm despite the fact that he’s on the floor amongst a sea of broken glass. At least our coworkers aren’t hanging on top of him. I imagine that would only make him more embarrassed.

“Thank you,” he says lightly.

For helping him? For being here?

Whatever the reason, I say, “O’course.”

His lips twist a little ruefully, and he turns his head, kissing my palm. “At least the next time I get a papercut, I’ll have you there to protect me.”

My heart squeezes tight. “Yeah, Jamie. You’ve got me.”

You’ve got me.

Despite the hellacious night at Gertie’s, I’m in a good mood when I get to Damian’s high school the next day. Jameson was adorably clingy all night and on into the morning, and I found I didn’t mind playing caretaker one bit. Not when I had his big, dark brown eyes watching me like I was his whole world.

A person sure could get used to appreciation like that.

But I did eventually have to leave for a meetup with my Little. It’s three o’clock when I arrive at the school, and the kids are just being let out for the day. I wait over by the picnic table where I first sat with Damian.

I decided to wear a little makeup today, fairly confident at this point that Damian wouldn’t be bothered by it. And, as I suspected, he barely looks twice as he plunks down next to me.

“Hey,” he mumbles, a rare little smile on his face.

“Hey. How’re you doin’?”

“Good,” he says, kicking at the ground. He has a jacket on, like me, seeing as it’s mid-fifties today.

“Any new artwork to show me?” I ask, trying to break the ice, per usual. Sometimes it takes a few minutes for Damian to open up, like he needs to push past a barrier each time. I get that. I’m no stranger to keeping to myself.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, sliding his backpack off and pulling out his sketchbook.

I shake my head slowly as I go through his penciled drawings. He really does have a fantastic eye. “These are great, Damian. You’re incredibly talented.”

“Thanks,” he says quietly, although he looks pleased by the praise. “I, uh, got the school to start a photography club, too.”

“Really?” I ask, handing the sketchbook back.

“Yeah. To help my friend.”

He sounds a little smug now, and I cock my head, wondering what I’m missing. “What’d you do?” I ask, amused by the way he can’t seem to stop smiling.

“Well, I was thinking about what you said. How we could fight bullies with numbers.”

“Okay,” I say slowly.

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