Page 7 of Rush Turner
Her lips parted. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, and so heartbreakingly stubborn.
“I don’t need—”
“You do.” I let my forehead brush hers, just for a heartbeat. “Let me do my job, Jessa. Let me keep you safe.”
JESSA
Why does he think it’s his job to keep me safe? Jeez I don’t even know him. My heart thundered against my ribs. I should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve called him every bad name I knew.
But for the first time in months… I didn’t feel alone. I wanted him to be here and keep me safe.
So I whispered, “Fine. But if you snore, I’m leaving you for dead in the morning.”
He chuckled, low and rough. “Deal, sunshine.”
6
Jessa
Rush Turner took upwaytoo much space in my tiny living room.
He didn’t sit on the couch like a normal person. Instead, he sank into the old recliner I’d rescued from a thrift store, his broad shoulders and long legs sprawled out, a mug of stale coffee balanced on one knee, and his eyes fixed on the front window like an apex predator on night watch.
I stood awkwardly by the bedroom door, hugging a pillow to my chest. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Yeah,” he said calmly, without looking at me. “I do.”
I scowled. “You’re so… so…annoying.”
He didn’t flinch. Just sipped his coffee, and chuckled eyes on the window. “Go to bed, sunshine.”
That’s when I saw John Wayne sneaking behind his chair. “John Wayne, don’t you do it.” Before I could stop him, my Maine Coon cat jumped up on Rush’s head, with his claws ready. But instead of scratching him, he started pushing his front paws into his neck, giving him a massage.
I heard Rush chuckle and pulled my traitor of a cat, who purred like he had fallen in love. On Rush’s lap.
“You’re a beauty. Did she call you John Wayne? The name fits you perfectly.”
RUSH
She hovered like a cat deciding whether to bolt or curl up in my lap. And I wasn’t talking about John Wayne. Every few seconds, she’d huff, stomp a few feet, then glare at me again. Adorable didn’t cover it.
“I don’t snore, by the way,” I said, fighting a smile.
“Liar.”
“I don’t.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You look like a snorer.”
I let out a low laugh. She jumped as if she hadn’t expected it — then quickly concealed the tiny smile that was trying to sneak onto her lips.
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“What does it matter how old I am?”
“I want to know if I have the hots for someone who is still a baby.”
“You have the hots for me?”
