Page 38 of Her Dirty Defender

About the fundraiser.

About all the ways he’s pushed me toward a life I don’t want.

And I realize that wanting to believe him andactuallybelieving him are two different things.

So instead of responding, I drive another nail into the fence post and focus on the steady rhythm of work.

A few feet away, Dad does the same.

Neither of us says another word, but the tension between us feels… lighter. Not gone, but maybe not so impossible to carry.

And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter10

Beckett

The ranch buzzes with activity the day before the Veteran’s Day Fundraiser—ladders scraping beams, drills whining, voices shouting over country music. The scent of sawdust hangs thick in the air, cut with sweat, hay, and tension.

But I barely register any of it.

Because every time I move a speaker, reroute a cable, or check voltage at the power hub, George is in my periphery. Bending over sound equipment, tapping notes into her tablet, muttering to herself about signal strength.

Sunlight slices through the half-open barn doors, catching the copper strands in her braid. She’s flushed from heat and exertion. Beautiful and sharp-edged, like a knife honed too finely.

She doesn’t look at me often, but when she does, the weight of it hits like a jolt to the sternum. I can feel it in my teeth.

She passes close enough to brush my arm, static crackling in the air between us. Then?—

“Beckett.”

Her voice is rough. Unfiltered. Real.

I turn instantly.

She’s already walking away, boots crunching across the gravel like punctuation marks. No explanation. No glance back. Just that clipped tone that says she’s about one breath from coming apart and doesn't know whether she wants to kiss me or deck me.

Maybe both.

I follow without hesitation, jaw tight, blood loud in my ears.

We disappear around the edge of the main barn, out of sight of the volunteers and stagehands, toward the smaller storage shed stacked with hay bales.

And I already know—I’ll take whatever she gives me.

I follow George inside, tracking the sway of her hips. Her boots kick up dust motes that dance in the light streaming through the gaps in the weathered boards.

The line of her spine is tight with anger, want, and something sharp she’s trying hard to bury. It’s a combination that’s been driving me crazy since our night at The Honey Pot.

The memory hits hard: George in that tight blue tank top, whiskey in hand, telling me she doesn't do complications right before complicating everything by agreeing to come to my room.

We haven’t touched since that night. Not really. Not the way I want. But the memory of her—the taste, the sound, the goddamn way she unraveled in my hands—lives behind my ribs like a live wire.

She’s trying to keep things focused. Professional. But I know what I saw in her eyes that night. And I see it now every time she glances my way and pretends she didn’t.

Now here we are again, tension crackling between us like lightning before a storm. She's trying to outrun this connection between us, but I've spent almost three weeks watching her work and learning her rhythms. I know exactly where she's heading—the back corner where the hay bales create private alcoves away from prying eyes.

Perfect.

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