Page 41 of Strung Along

Just the thought of his name in relation to my new jacket makes my chest ache. The act of generosity and care that came with the gift was almost too much. Almostistoo much. He didn’t have to do that, but he did anyway.

It wasn’t until he told me it was mine that I realized how truly low my standards had become while being with Stewart. Not only did he make me feel terrible about myself, but he also ruined my expectations of others. While an incredibly thoughtful gift, it shouldn’t have hit me so hard that a man—a friend—wanted to make sure I was taken care of without expecting anything in return. I mistook Stewart’s habits of gifting me things as sweet gestures, when really, it was his way of controlling me.

I can take care of myself, but I also deserve to be taken care of if I wish to be.Truly taken care of.

Three knocks hit my front door, and I squeak, snatching the to-go cup of coffee before running to the front window to find a big red truck parked out front. My knees lock as I notice the lack of exhaust puffing out into the cold.

Did he actually come to my door?

By the time I pull open the door, my mind glitches when Brody is indeed standing on my front porch. With his hands in the pockets of a jacket similar in colour to the one he gave me, he looks me over with a slight, tired smile. He takes up most of the doorway with his wide shoulders, but for once, I’m not intimidated by his size. It’s almost . . . overwhelming, in a way that I refuse to dig into with him watching me like this.

“You didn’t have to come to my door,” I tell him, only half meaning it.

It was thoughtful of him to come up.

“That’s not the way I was raised, Buttercup.” The words roll off his tongue with a natural finesse, and not for the first time, I question if he picked up the slight twang in his voice from his time in Nashville.

I zip up my coat and wait for him to back up before stepping outside and locking up. “No more sweetheart?”

“Do you prefer that name?” We walk down the sidewalk, our strides in sync.

“I’ve never had so many to pick from before. Let me feel special for a moment,” I tease.

His chuckle is gruff. “My apologies. Feel away.”

“This is for you, by the way.” I extend the cup of coffee to him, eyes tracking his every reaction. He hides whatever he’s thinking well.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the cup and popping open the lid to smell it. “Coffee?”

I nod. “I wasn’t sure how you took it, so it’s just black.”

“Black’s good.”

Pride blooms in my chest as we reach the truck. Just like he did the first time I rode in this red beast, Brody opens the door for me, nodding for me to hop in. The snow in front of the door is deep and heavy, and my winter boots sink into it. When I set one boot onto the running board and grip the handle to try and push myself up, the slickness beneath it has my body shooting forward, my legs whooshing out from under me.

“Ah!” I yelp, my arms flailing in an attempt to grab onto something. But the only thing I can grab onto has already failed me, and I brace myself for the incoming impact.

Hands grab onto my waist, their grip tight as I’m pulled backward toward a hard, sturdy body. Strong arms wrap aroundme, that woodsy cinnamon scent exploding everywhere, making my toes beg to curl in my boots. Breathing is a foreign concept.

“Careful, it’s wet,” Brody rumbles in my ear, and fuck it all to hell, I give in and let my toes curl.

“No shit,” I blurt out between sucking back gulps of air.

His arms flex around my waist, the steel coffee cup still sealed shut and pressed to my side. I swirl my tongue around in my mouth to try and cure the sudden dryness before pushing out of his embrace.

I keep my back to him while I grab the handle again and ask, “Can we forget that ever happened? I’ll never recover from the embarrassment.”

“You’ll never recover from what?”

His presence is a weight at my back as I try again to get in the truck. I know he has his arms spread behind me, most likely holding the body of the truck on either side of my body so if I fall, I’ll topple onto him instead of the snow. That thought fills me with too much warmth.

He’s protective of people. It must be a deep-rooted instinct for him to fall into the role of protector so naturally.

Never mind that it’s an incredibly attractive instinct as well.

“Exactly,” I reply.

Thankfully, I make it into the truck this time without another incident, and once I’m seated on the leather, I’m gifted with a flash of his broad smile before the door is shut and he’s out of sight.

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