Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
After stowing her stuff in the trunk, I open the passenger-side door for her. She looks at me from beneath her eyelashes. Overseas, I’d often read novels. I read that phrase many times. I’ve never actually seen it in real life until now. Her gaze is turned down, and she looks up nervously. She’s so, so beautiful.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, getting in the car.
I walk around the other side, glancing over at the gym. James is standing in the window, watching us. I lift my hand and wave. He turns away without waving back.
If I needed a sign he’s not taking this well, I’ve got one. So, what sort of father does that make me? But nothing’s happened, I assure myself. Try to. Nothing’s happened, and nothing’s going to.
“You can put your address in there,” I say, nodding to the GPS.
“Okay, cool,” she replies. “So you don’t, uh, know my address already?”
“Why would I know where you live?” I ask, confused.
She leans forward to the GPS unit, entering her address. “Oh, no reason.”
The comment is confusing as hell. I can’t think of why I’d already know where she lives. Once the GPS gives me directions, I pull out of the lot. She clasps her hands in her lap like she’s working out some tension. I have to fight the urge to reach over, separate her hands, and let her know she doesn’t have to—
Bang. The windows are blown in. I lean across the car and put my arm protectively over Samantha. We’re at a red light. No, the windows haven’t blown in. What was the noise? I scan the area. There are some assholes on the street corner lighting small fireworks. Lighting them and laughing like tough guys when a mother and her young son leap out of the way.
I punch my door open and walk over to them, not thinking, ready for murder.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Samantha
I can still feel the pressure of his arm laid protectively over me. Behind us, cars are honking their horns, but Fletcher doesn’t care. There are four men on the street corner, gangster-looking-type people, honestly, covered in tattoos and with a nasty way of looking up and down the sidewalk, like they’re waiting for somebody to challenge them.
I slide into the driver’s seat and guide the car to the side of the road, doing my best to wedge it against the sidewalk awkwardly. Then I jump out and follow Fletcher. Why? What do I think I’m going to be able to achieve? It doesn’t matter. I want to be there for him.
“Relax, guy,” one of the men says when I approach. He’s taller than the others, has a tattoo of a bloody dagger on his neck, and teardrops under his eye.
“Why the fuck are you setting off fireworks here?” Fletcher growls. He doesn’t seem even a bit worried until he glances at me, then his expression changes. Am I going crazy, or is that a protective glint I see in his intense blues?
“Why does it matter, big man?” another one says, laughing for no reason. “If you’ve got a problem—”
“If you finish that sentence,” Fletcher cuts in, “then it’s war. Then we go, and when we go, we don’t stop until we can’t fight anymore.” He takes a step forward, filled with more rage than I’ve ever seen anybody, fists clenched at his sides. “What’s it going to be?”
One of the men laughs, but then the leader turns and glares at him. I can’t see Fletcher’s face, just his back rising and falling with deep breaths. I can’t see his eyes, but I bet they’re piercing, clear, and ready. Terrifying.
When sirens sound a few streets over, it gives the men an excuse to gather their fireworks and run away. I’ve got no doubt about what would’ve happened if things had gotten violent. I’m not certain Fletcher would’ve won, but he would’ve fought.
“Sorry about that,” he says, turning to me.
I shake my head. I can still feel that warm protective pressure across my body, his powerful arm shielding me. “You don’t have to be.”
“Sometimes I just…” He walks toward the car without finishing the thought.
“Just what?” I ask once I’m in the passenger seat.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, starting the engine and pulling out of the spot.
“Oh, okay.”
We don’t say anything for a while as he keeps driving. Minutes pass. I’m not sure how many—too many, anyway. The GPS indicator shows us getting closer and closer to my house. It’s like being on the date again, only in the sense there’s something I want to say, but there’s this shield inside of me blocking it like I’d have to force the words out.
I can do it, can’t I? I’m not that pathetic? I can ask a simple question.
“You can tell me,” I say, speaking so quickly it’s a miracle he can make out the words.