Dylan(22)

Fuck, no. Don’t go there.

I rub a hand over my face. “Did he hurt you?” I ask.

She takes so long to speak, I know the answer is yes, and it makes my hands curl into fists.

“I’m okay,” she lies, her voice strained. Her red lipstick is smeared over her chin, like blood. What did that asshole do to her? “I just want to go home.”

“Is someone here who can take you?”

“I have my car. I’ll be fine.”

Hell no. Not with that lunatic of a boyfriend of hers roaming the place. “He hurt you,” I say, and this time it’s not a question. “I can’t let you go out there alone.”

“I’m sorry, what?” She turns back to face me, and her expression roots me to the spot. She’s angry—coldly angry. “Guess what: I don’t need your permission to do anything. Thank you for helping me. But you were here by chance. You don’t have the right to tell me what I can or can’t do, because you’re no longer a part of my life.”

Fuck. I’ve been shutting her out for years, and here I am, shocked because she’s finally returning the favor.

And I can’t stop staring at her. I can’t stop looking.

Damn, she’s so sexy, standing there in her red dress that’s barely visible under her gray coat, her long legs bare, her face flushed, her eyes glittering. She’s gorgeous. Breathtaking. Her anger is transforming her, peeling off the layers of quiet acceptance she’s been hiding under for so long. Revealing her true self.

My Tessa. The girl I wanted to spend my life with. The girl I couldn’t live without.

I rub a hand over my face. Shit. No, not this. Especially not now.

She turns and limps toward the doors, her body tense. Why is she limping? Did she hurt her feet?

“Tessa, wait.” I hurry after her. “That fucker is still out there. I’m going with you.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything when I open the door and wait for her to enter the building. I reach for her, and she lets me pull her close and support her as we walk down the hall.

“Did you hurt your foot? Did you sprain an ankle?”

“Must’ve stepped on something.”

“Hang on in there.” My jaw is clenched so tight it aches. Her short answers make my hackles rise. Whatever happened was bad. It really spooked her. And I shouldn’t worry about Tessa when I have my brothers and dad to look after, when I need to make ends meet, and it doesn’t look like I’m gonna make it—but nothing can stop me from taking care of Tessa now. Not when she’s leaning on me, soft and scared, angry and yet trusting. Trusting me to help her through this mess.

“Is it true that guy’s not your boyfriend?”

“He’s not,” she whispers, and her voice hitches. “He never was. We sort of hung out together for a while once. That was years ago.”

Unfamiliar heat washes through me. All the muscles in my body stiffen. The thought of her being with another man…

Hell no. This can’t be happening. I don’t have the right to be jealous.

I’m taking her home. A reasonable voice in my mind insists I should help her to her car and stay. I’m getting paid for this gig and desperately need the money.

But I can’t let go of her. My arm is locked around her slim back, my mind is locked… locked on her.

I draw a shuddering breath, force myself to keep moving. Miguel, the other guard on this side of the building, glances up as we approach and frowns.

“I need to take her home,” I say by way of greeting, praying he won’t ask questions. “She had a small accident. Could you cover for me? I won’t be long.”

He nods again, shakes his head. “Got you covered, hombre. You okay, miss? Should I call the police?”

“I’m okay.” Tessa dredges up a faint smile. I can see right through it. She’s terrified and trying to hide it, and I want to go back, grab that motherfucker of an ex of hers and slam him into a wall. Repeatedly.

I clutch her to me, needing to protect and soothe her. It’s like all these years I managed to bury my feelings for her deep, and now… Now they’re rushing together, streams feeding into a river, drowning me, confusing me.

Fucking hell.

I thank Miguel and usher Tessa out. Startled gazes follow us—a grim security guard and a beautiful, barefoot woman, stumbling out onto the street where glamorous guests are still arriving in their shiny limos.

The breeze is icy, and I tuck Tessa closer to me, trying to shield her from the cold and the curious stares.

“There’s the head valet. Give me the ticket for your car,” I say, and she pulls it out of her purse and hands it to me wordlessly.