Page 37 of Her Dirty Defender

“Thanks, but I don’t need your help. I can handle it myself.”

I’m a strong, independent woman who does not fall for overprotective, broody men with abs that could cut glass and a voice that makes my knees weak.

I absolutely do not?—

“Are you done glaring at me?” His voice is all smug amusement, and just like that, my fantasy of being unaffected goes up in smoke.

I hate how easily he sees through me. How part of me wants him to keep pushing, but not enough to admit it.

Damn him. Damn that smirk. And damn me for wanting him the way I do.

* * *

I manage to avoid Beckett for the next hour when I somehow end up helping Dad repair a broken fence along the south paddock. I don’t even remember agreeing to it. He just handed me a hammer, and I took it because I’m used to him giving me orders.

Dad and I work in relative silence, save for the rhythmic thunk of hammers hitting wood and the occasional grunt of exertion. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy either.

I swipe at the sweat on my brow, shifting my grip on the wooden plank. I can feel him watching me in the way he always does, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how.

I pretend not to notice, driving another nail into place.

“You ever gonna learn how to swing a hammer right?”

I glance up. “I fix engines, Dad. Not fences.”

“Same concept,” he mutters, pulling another plank into place.

I snort. “Yeah, because wood and steel are exactly the same thing.”

Dad grumbles something under his breath, but there’s no real bite to it.

For a moment, it almost feels like old times. Before the fights. Before I felt like I had to shrink myself to fit into the version of me he wanted.

We work in silence for a while, falling into the familiar back-and-forth of passing nails and adjusting boards—wordless communication that comes from years of knowing how the other moves.

It reminds me of when I was a kid, following him around like a shadow, trying to prove I could keep up.

Back then, he let me believe I was strong enough to carry the world.

Now, he only wants me to carry the life he’s picked out for me.

He clears his throat, breaking the silence. “You know… not everything has to be perfect.”

I glance up, hammer mid-swing. Does he think I’m trying to prove myself or being rebellious? Doesn’t he know me at all? “Come again?”

He keeps his focus on the fence, his movements steady and deliberate. “People. Plans. Life. Sometimes, you do the best you can and let the rest be.”

I narrow my eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with my father?”

The corner of his mouth quirks slightly. “I mean it, George.”

I don’t know what to do with that. It’s not an apology, not really.

But it’s the closest he’s ever come to giving one.

I want to take it at face value. I want to believe he’s saying, in his own rigid way, that maybe he’s been too hard on me.

But then I think about Marcus.

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