Page 4 of Rush Turner
He finally turned, wiping grease off his hands with a rag, blue eyes glittering with amusementandwarning. “You’re not walking ten miles down unlit roads at night. Try again.”
I stomped past him, muttering, “Watch me, Mister Bossy pants.”
I made it exactly twelve steps toward the big garage door before an arm slipped around my waist and lifted me clean off my feet.
I squealed. “PUT ME DOWN, YOU BIG—!”
“Jessa.” His voice rumbled down my spine, low and calm and so firm I forgot how to squeal properly. “Do you want to get yourself killed? Or kidnapped by the actual maniacs who do exist around here?”
I went still. He felt it — the tiny stiffening I couldn’t hide. He set me on my feet but didn’t let go. His voice dropped to a murmur in my ear.
“Hey. What’s really going on, sunshine?”
I swallowed. “Nothing.”
His fingers flexed at my hip, warm and careful. “Don’t lie to me.”
I turned, chin up, pepper spray still clutched like a comfort blanket. “None of your business, Rush Turner.”
His jaw ticked. He released me, stepping back just enough for cold air to slip between us. “Fine. We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I’m driving you home.”
“I can walk—”
“Get in the truck.”
I opened my mouth to argue. He crossed his arms — all muscle and no compromise.
I huffed. “Fine. But I’m picking the radio station this time.”
RUSH
She fell asleep ten minutes later. Mid-lecture about my ‘creepy country music taste,’ her head thunked softly against the passenger window, and she just… drifted.
The tiny lines in her forehead melted away. The pepper spray rolled from her hand into her lap. I couldn’t help it — I stole glances every other mile.
Cute as hell. Stubborn as sin. And hiding something she thought she could handle alone.
Not on my watch, sunshine.
I pulled into the diner, killing the engine. She blinked awake, squinting in confusion.
“Where are we?” she mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.
“Getting food.”
She perked up like a toddler promised ice cream. I’m starving.”
I bit back a smile. “Yeah, Jessa, me too.
4
Jessa
Idecided exactly two bites into the strawberry cake that I wasnotgoing to yell at Rush Turner anymore.
Nope. Not happening. He was too big, too calm, too unfairly handsome, and way too smug about how easily he’d dragged me in here like I was a stray cat in need of a saucer of milk.
Still… the cake was good. And the booth was warm. And the way he sat opposite me — all broad shoulders and quiet protectiveness — made my chest do things I refused to admit out loud.
