Page 10 of September's Bad Boy: Cooper
His free hand rises slowly, brushing hair from my cheek. “I don’t want you to regret this.”
“I’d regret walking away more.”
He leans in, lips so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. His hand slides around my waist, pulling me forward just enough that I’m pressed against his bare chest. My breath hitches.
But then, with a sharp inhale, he pulls back and steps away.
“I want you,” he says, voice hoarse. “God, I want you. But not like this. Not in a gym full of shadows and judgment.”
My heart’s pounding in my chest, but I nod. “Okay.”
He picks up the last of the towels, stuffing them into the laundry bin. “You should go before I change my mind.”
I smile, a little breathless. “You’re not the only one.”
We stand there for a long second. The moment stretched thin between us. Then I turn and head toward the door.
Once I’m outside, the air feels cooler against my flushed skin. I pause at the bottom of the steps, still catching my breath. I can still feel the ghost of his hand on my waist, the almost-kiss hanging between us like a secret neither of us knows what to do with.
Walking slowly, the box of books long forgotten, my every step is weighted with thoughts I can’t untangle.
Cooper isn’t who I thought he was. Or maybe he is, and I’m only just now seeing the complete picture. The protector. The man who stood up for me years ago. The man who’s still standing tall, even with the town trying to knock him down.
I’m not sure how much longer I can stand on the sidelines.
CHAPTER 5
COOPER
Just past noon, I get the call from the sheriff’s office. I’m at the gym, scrubbing the last of the paint off the exterior wall and trying not to let my fury get the best of me. I’ve already replaced the broken glass and boarded up the side entrance, but the red slashes of graffiti feel like they’re carved straight into my skin. My shoulders ache from hours of labor, but it’s the kind of soreness I welcome. It's a distraction from the questions churning in my mind.
"Cooper," Sheriff Lawson says when I answer, his voice even and unreadable, "I need you to come down to the station. The fire marshal wants to ask you a few questions."
I freeze, water dripping from the brush in my hand. "About the fires?"
"Yeah. Bring yourself, nothing else."
Hanging up, I wipe my hands on a rag, feeling the cold dread already settling in my gut. I’ve only been back in Mustang Mountain for a few weeks and already it feels like the walls are closing in.
On my way out of the gym, I spot Jason crossing the street toward the bakery, paper coffee cup in hand. Our eyes meet, and he stops, arching an eyebrow as if he had been expecting this moment.
"Heard you're wanted at the sheriff's office," he says without preamble. His voice has the same bitter edge it's carried since the day I got back. "What'd you screw up this time?"
"You really think I’m behind the fires?" I ask, my tone flat.
He shrugs. "Doesn’t matter what I think. Town has already decided. You know how quickly they turn."
"I’m trying to fix things," I say, jaw tight. "Trying to fix us."
Jason laughs. It's humorless, sharp. "You think building a gym wipes the slate clean? That it makes you a father again?"
"No," I say quietly. "But showing up every damn day is a start."
He shakes his head and turns toward the bakery. "Showing up now doesn’t erase the years you were gone. Remember that."
Standing there a beat longer, I feel the sting of his words settling into my bones before I force myself to keep walking.
By the time I get to the station, my jaw is rigid. The fire marshal meets me in the back room. Sheriff Lawson stays close, arms folded, his face unreadable but less hostile than I expected.
