Page 52 of Saving Saul

His smirk softens into something almost wistful. “Can’t say I blame her.”

I swallow hard, ignoring how those words settle deep in my chest.

“Let’s just go.”

THE BOYS IN BLUE

TESSA

Without another word,Saul takes my hand and leads me to an unassuming black Dodge Durango parked under the soft glow of streetlights.

I chuckle and look over at him. “A Dodge?” I step back, still keep our hands clasped, and wave my hand in front of his delicious form. “With the whole Tom Ford billionaire, man of mystery, sommelier vibe, you’ve got going. I’d expect at least a Range.”

He pulls me in to kiss the top of my cheek and whispers, “Marcus Mitchell couldn’t afford a Range Rover. But Saul Mensah has one in Accra and one in London. We can fly to either place now, on my chartered jet, if you’d like to ride in one of those instead.”

I tremble at his touch and the unapologetic drip in his words and shake my head. “ No, the Durango is fine.”

He grins. “ Good girl. Now, come.”

Oh. I plan to.

Once in the car, we hit the highway, and Biggie’s smooth voice fills the car, the bass thumping asOne More Chanceplays on the radio.

Saul taps the steering wheel to the beat, the occasional smirk tugging at his lips when he catches me sneaking glances at him. The heat between us is palpable.

The moment is stolen when a flash of red and blue lights in the rearview mirror slams into me like a gut punch.

My breath stills, my fingers curling instinctively around my pearls as they heat against my skin. They aren’t just warm; they burn.

Trouble. There must be trouble.

Even before Saul glances at the mirror, I know.

This has to do with last week's incident with Antoine at Crescent Hall. You don’t just knock out the Chief of Police under an assumed name and get away with it.

It’s Antoine.

It must be.

Saul wasn’t speeding. His car is spotless, with no busted taillights or expired tags. A cop has no legitimate reason to be tailing us, which means this is personal.

The bastard.

Saul doesn’t react at first, his grip on the wheel steady, his expression unreadable as the siren blares behind us. He probably thinks the cop is after someone else. But then, the voice crackles through the bullhorn.

"Pull over, Mensah."

My stomach knots. Saul exhales through his nose, muttering something under his breath before flicking on the turn signal and easing onto the shoulder. His movements are slow, deliberate—controlled in a way that tells me he’s been in similar situations.

This is bullshit, and we both know it.

Before the cop even steps out, Saul presses a number on his speed dial. His fingers are precise, with no hesitation, no fumbling. Whoever he’s calling, he knows they’ll answer. Saulcommands someone on his phone with a low rumble. All I hear is him growl,thanks.

He squeezes my hand, his thumb sweeping over my knuckles soothingly. Then, to my absolute shock, he winks. "Be cool, sweetheart."

Cool? My crazy ex-sexual harasser is weaponizing his badge, and Saul is acting like we’re about to order beignets at Café du Monde.

A moment later, one of Antoine’s lackeys steps out of the squad car, strolling toward us with the slow, practiced arrogance of a man who thinks he has the upper hand. He stops at Saul’s window, rapping on it twice.

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