Page 77 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I know he’ll be there.
He always has been.
For a second, I’m five years old again, gripping Jackson’s hand as he yanks me out of the path of a speeding bike in the school parking lot.
“I’ve got you,” he’d said back then.
Just like he does now.
And that’s enough to keep me going.
Chapter Twenty-Two
JACKSON
The kitchen light’s on when I come downstairs.
Ava’s sitting at the table, her back to me, hands wrapped around a mug like it’s the only thing holding her together. Her drink is untouched. She just stares at the steam curling above it, like she’s trying to find something solid in the swirl.
She doesn’t look up when I step in, but I know she hears me.
I move slowly, grabbing a second mug I’d left by the coffeemaker. Pour some decaf and slide into the chair across from her. For a minute, we just sit there, stillness between us.
“The boys are down,” I say finally. “Noah practically staged a protest when I wouldn’t let him sleep in his costume.”
That gets the barest flicker of a smile. Then she looks down again.
I move closer, stopping just short of the island. “Ava.”
She turns toward me, finally. And just like earlier, that mask she’s wearing doesn’t quite hold.
“He’s pulling our funding,” she says quietly. “Brad. That’s what he came to do.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“His investment firm is one of our biggest donors,” she says. “It covers fifteen percent of our annual budget… grants, the mobile library vans, author visits. He knows exactly how much it matters.”
My hands curl into fists.
“Said he was ‘redirecting their charitable giving elsewhere.’ But he looked me in the eye and smiled when he said it.”
Who the hell does that?
It’s not just that he’s an asshole. It’s that he enjoys it. Hurting her, flexing his power, like it’s a game.
I want to put a hole through something. Preferably him.
She shakes her head. “It’s not just the money, Jackson.”
I take a step closer. I want to reach for her and rest a hand on her shoulder, anything, but I stop myself.
“What really guts me is…” She swallows hard. “I almostmarriedhim. And now I see it so clearly. The control. The manipulation.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just let her say the thing she needs to say.
“We met in college. He was my first real relationship,” she says quietly. “My first everything, really. And he could be so damn charming when he wanted to be.”
She looks down at her mug again. “I thought I was building something safe, something solid. Now I’m staring at the wreckage, wondering how the hell I didn’t see it sooner.”
