Page 12 of Daddy's Heart

“Where's your bag?" Colt asks, already rooting around my desk. "I'm walking you home. Saw your van still in your driveway."

"Jesus."

My cheeks turn to fire as Logan stomps his feet on a manic guffaw, clapping like a maniac. “Be still my heart. A gentleman escort? Can I pick your wedding colors?”

“Logan,” I snap.

He’s laughing as he heads into the back, leaving me to Colt and his unreadable stare, my purse already on his shoulder.

"Doesn't match." I give him an irritated exhale.

"Don't care. You match me just fine. Come on, before my stupid radio goes off."

The walk is quiet. He doesn’t touch me, but his presence is so heavy it feels like protection. A truck slows down beside us, the driver hollering something about leggings and ex-wives.

Colt doesn’t flinch.

“Keep driving,” he says, low and final. “Just my brother. One of them.”

They peel away.

“Brothers?” I ask.

He grunts. “Unfortunately.”

“He seems nice.”

“They’re not.”

At my front steps, I fumble the keys. He catches them. Then his radio buzzes. He listens, jaw tightening.

“Domestic dispute. I have to go,” he mutters, frustration radiating off him.

He grabs my chin gently, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“This is the last time I walk away without coming back the same night.”

Then he’s gone.

Five

Colt

The call’s a waste of time. I settle it in ten minutes and head straight for Mrs. Sherman’s bakery. My dirty secret.

I don’t know what she puts in her cupcakes, but there’s a line out the door of the bakery every morning. A mix of tourists and locals practically salivating and trampling each other to get inside before she’s sold out.

But, I have a secret. She saves one for me every day. Today, it’s vanilla frosting over pink cherry flavored cake and a candied double cherry on top.

Fucking perfect. I take it, leaving her my usual twenty-dollar bill, which she tries to refuse, but inevitable gives in when I tell her if she won’t take the twenty, I’m going to make her take a fifty.

Emery’s lights are off when I pull up. I don’t knock. I walk around the side of her house, reminding myself to make sure the locks on her windows work. She said she just moved back, and Iknow this place. It was Mrs. Bruner’s place before she moved to Tacoma to be with her son.

It’s a solid, cute little cottage just a few streets off from the center of town, safe, but I need her locked fucking down.

Around the back, a low light is on, I step on the soft grass closer to the window but not so close I’d scare the shit out of her if she saw me.

There she is. The curtain is open just enough.

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