Page 23 of Beyond Protection
My instinct was to pull back and break the contact before the weight of being cared for without earning it crushed something in my chest.
But I didn't move.
I let his hands stay. Let the warmth seep through my hoodie into my skin. Let myself be the one receiving comfort instead of the one providing it.
I sensed danger. More dangerous than any stalker.
If I let myself need this—needhim—what happened when he left? When the job ended and he went back to Portland, and I went back to performing for strangers who'd never touch me like this?
His hands tightened, just for a second. Then he stepped back. He looked at me like I was worth dying for.
"Okay," I said. "I trust you."
"Good." He pulled out his phone and called Michael, who'd disappeared somewhere in the house. "Yeah, new messages. Run those Camry plates."
He moved to the window. Assessing angles and approaches with tactical precision.
Somewhere in Seattle, a stalker was watching. Planning. Deciding how to remove the damaging element that dared to touch their perfect specimen.
And the man in Ma's kitchen—copper hair and winter-gray eyes and hands that had saved lives and mourned the one he couldn't save—was about to become a target because I needed protection.
I looked at him. Still on the phone, still planning, still working to keep me safe.
I wanted him safe.
I wanted him close.
I wanted him.
Chapter four
Eamon
The building's lobby smelled like money trying not to advertise itself. It was the Monday after Thanksgiving—time to check out Mac's condominium.
The lobby's concrete floors were polished to a dull sheen. Minimalist furniture that no one sat in. The elevator required a key fob. Glass, steel, and mirrors multiplied us into infinity.
Mac pulled out his phone. Checked it. Put it away. Thirty seconds later, he pulled it out again.
Compulsive. Anxious.
Twenty-seven floors up. My ears popped.
Mac fumbled his keys at his door. Caught them. His neck flushed pink.
Training made me move past him into the unit first.
The space told its story immediately.
Hardwood minus any scuff marks. Ceramic bowl on the console table—empty except for a single key. Bon Iver playing faintly from deeper in the unit.For Emma, Forever Ago.
The living room: high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, furniture arranged for conversations that had never happened. One indent in the sofa cushion. Left side only.
I walked to the kitchen. Ancient coffee maker on the counter— thirty years old, utterly wrong for this sterile space.
Mac moved past me. Filled the carafe with water. His hands knew the ritual without thinking—the exact amount, the filter placement, and the particular angle you had to hold the basket so it would seat properly.
Light from the windows caught him in profile—sharp jaw, elegant bones—the architecture that photographed well from any angle.
