His to Protect: A Fireside Novel

by Stacey Lynn

  His eyes were blank when they met mine again, though. “Nice to meet you. Now what are you hungry for?”

  He turned and walked away from me, clearly expecting me to follow.

  I shot one last look at Boomer.

  He lifted his head and stuck out his tongue, panting sloppily before he yawned and lay back down, closing his eyes.

  I shook my head and walked toward the kitchen.

  Chapter 2

  Declan

  I walked away from the woman—Trina—before I did something asinine like demand she tell me who gave her the fading bruise on her cheek. I noticed it and felt the overwhelming urge to pummel someone as soon as she stepped into the light in the doorway of the restaurant.

  Figuring she wouldn’t like seeing my hands balled into fists, I tamped that anger down with every ounce of self-control I possessed, and scanned the rest of her body.

  When I did, I noticed several things all at once.

  She wasn’t homeless.

  My ex-wife, Mara, spent enough hours at the salon getting her hair and nails done, and then bitching about roots showing and chipped polish, for me to instantly see that this woman lived a lifestyle that Mara had craved.

  Trina’s clothes were high-end. No cheap pair of jeans could hug a woman’s hips and thighs, and most likely her ass, as well as the ones this woman wore.

  A flash of her throwing her hand up in front of her face when I went to stop her from running pierced my mind, and I fought the urge to growl.

  No, she wasn’t homeless, as I originally assumed when I saw her crouched over a ripped-up bag of garbage handing scraps to her dog.

  She was hiding.

  Running.

  And for some damn reason, I had an overwhelming instinct to take care of her.

  For a meal, I reminded myself.

  I had enough shit going on in my life that I didn’t need to take on this additional cause. Saving my restaurant, which hadn’t turned a profitable month all year, was my priority. And while the fall and football season generally meant more business, I still had more problems than solutions. I didn’t need any more.

  “You decide what you want?” I asked, turning on the grill.

  Focus. I needed to focus. Feed her, get her out of here, go home and have a stiff drink, so I could wash away the memory of what I thought when I first saw her.

  Protect her.

  When she didn’t answer, I twisted my neck to see her hovering by the doorway. She was keeping an eye on the door to the alley and her dog, as well as me.

  I didn’t blame her for being scared of me. Women either wanted to fuck me or skip to the other side of the street when they saw me coming. I couldn’t help it. I’d been addicted to sports since I could walk and throw a ball. Four years of college football only increased my love for being in shape. The few minor bodybuilding competitions I did after I graduated cemented it. Lifting weights and working out relieved my stress. I carried enough on my shoulders on a daily basis that lifting was no longer a hobby, but an obsession.

  “I can get you a menu,” I told Trina when she didn’t answer me, just sucked her lip between her teeth.

  “Salad,” she muttered and blinked. “No, wait…” I tried to keep my expression blank while she chewed on that damn lip. Not because it was sexy, but because between the lip biting and the fidgeting she was doing with her hands, I could tell she was still nervous. Over a damn meal?

  With a nod, she looked at me, meeting my gaze for the first time. “I want a burger. With cheese. Two slices…oh.” Her face lit up, her smile widened.

  I felt like I’d just been punched in the gut.

  “And with fried onions.”

  “Onions?”

  Her head snapped back at my question and that lip found its way between her teeth again before she looked away. “I mean, if that’s okay. Or if it’s too much work, I’ll just take the salad.”

  Her shoulders slumped as she turned back toward the dog.

  I got the feeling that request was about way more than food.

  I watched her as she shifted on her feet, eyes focused on the door like she was ready to make a run for it, but then her fingers brushed against the yellowish bruise on her cheekbone.

  Something inside me ignited, like a lit match had been thrown on a fire.

  “Trina,” I snapped and then inhaled a breath, blowing it out slowly as she turned my way.

  “I’ll cook you whatever you want,” I said, trying to soften my deep voice, even though inside I felt like boiling over. It was a damn burger. This stranger shouldn’t ignite something like this inside me. But damn it. She’d been beaten, that much was obvious.

  And I was beginning to think she’d taken more than a physical beating if her fidgeting and uncertainty was any indication.

  I quickly walked away from the stovetop, hoping like hell she’d stay where she was when I moved toward the office. I grabbed a spare barstool and carried it back, setting it down close to her, but trying to respect her personal space.

  She jumped as the wood scraped on the cement floor and her hand fell from her curly blonde hair. Not platinum blonde and obviously fake like Mara’s was. Trina’s was darker, but with streaks of light that told me she didn’t just get her hair highlighted…she spent a large amount of money on it.

  My curiosity about her was piqued.

  “Have a seat,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “If you want a salad I can make that. But if you want a burger with extra cheese and onions, it’s honestly no big deal. I told you I’d cook you a meal and if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.”

  My eyes dropped to her throat as she swallowed, and then my gaze zeroed in on one small mole she had right at that tender, fleshy area at the base of her throat. I pulled my gaze away from where I could see her pulse thumping.

  “That’s very kind of you.” Her voice was raspy, still quiet. All her earlier confidence had dissipated into the air and, damn it, for some reason I wanted her to get it back.

  I slid a menu onto the countertop near her before I walked to the refrigerator and took out everything for the burger she’d requested. While I was inside, I also threw together a salad because hell…maybe she really liked salads, too. Although I doubted it. Something told me she lived on vegetation because she thought she had to.

  She was fairly tall and thin, and she didn’t need to lose weight.

  When I got back to the work area, Trina was sitting on the stool, absentmindedly tapping her fingertips on the menu, while one of her feet bounced up and down on the lower rung of the stool. In the few seconds I watched her, I could tell that she was singing a song in her head before her lips began moving. A soft smile graced her lips before she noticed me and jerked her head up.

  Her smile disappeared and I had to, again, fight the urge to scowl.

  I set down a garden salad. “Here’s the salad if you want it. Help yourself.”

  She stared at it and her top lip curled.

  I looked away before she could see me smile.

  I knew she hated salads.

  —

  “This is delicious.” Trina made another moaning sound that seemed to tumble from deep in her throat with every bite she took.

  It was the kind of sound that could drive a man insane. That’s what it was doing to me, even though I was trying to fight it.

  It wasn’t even purely sexual, although the way her full lips pressed together as she chewed made me think once or twice—or a dozen times in the span of a few minutes—about what her lips would look like pressed somewhere else.

  But I was a guy, and that was a natural reaction to have with a beautiful, albeit injured, woman sitting in front of me, moaning over food I prepared just for her.

  She hadn’t spoken since declaring my burger delicious. I tried to give her the space and quiet she clearly needed, but it wasn’t easy. A thousand and one questions raced through my mind as I turned off the grill and spent the last several minutes cleaning it all over
again.

  When the quiet, pleasured groans began, I went to the fridge to cool down before I decided to make her a sandwich for tomorrow. Having a feeling that the greasy burger with extra greasy onions was an indulgence she rarely enjoyed, I whipped up a grilled chicken Caesar wrap for her. It was probably nothing like the fancy food she usually ate, but I bet it was healthier. While she pretended not to watch my every movement, still keeping her gaze divided between my general area and where her dog was still lying in the doorway, I took her lunch for tomorrow into the office and slid a twenty-dollar bill inside, along with a note telling her to get her dog some food.

  I brought it to her and tapped the closed Styrofoam lid. “Food for tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered, staring at the small, white container.

  As she took another bite of her burger, the questions in my mind began to overwhelm me and I turned to her, resting my ass against the counter behind me. I flipped the towel onto my shoulder and curled my fingertips around the countertop edge to try to look less intimidating.

  “You been on the road long?” I asked, unable to keep the tightness out of my voice.

  The burger froze an inch from her mouth as her eyes widened.

  She blinked and shook her head. “No.”

  Looking away while she chewed her food, frustration began to bubble inside me. It shouldn’t matter.

  It shouldn’t bother me that Trina didn’t want to talk to me.

  It was none of my business.

  Yet, she was here, accepting my help, at least for a meal.

  “Do you know where you’re headed?”

  She nodded and some of the knotted tension inside my chest began to loosen. At least she had a plan.

  Or she was lying to me, but considering she met my gaze dead on, I doubted it.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.” She wiped her fingers on a napkin before taking a sip of the water I had gotten for her while her food cooked.

  When she finished eating, I took the completely emptied plate back to the dishwashing area. By the time I returned, she was already at the back door, one hand scratching the area between Boomer’s ears and the other holding the food container I left for her.

  With my keys in my hand, I began turning out the kitchen lights until there was only the light on right by the back door.

  When she jumped to her feet, eyes slightly widened again, I spun my key chain around my thumb before catching it in my fist. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  She reached down and took a hold of Boomer’s leash. He groaned, stretching his front legs and sticking his butt in the air before doing the same with his hind legs. He moved with a lazy manner, so very different than the excited dog I saw earlier.

  “Come on, Boomer. Let’s get going.”

  He followed her lead and they began moving, not waiting for me to close the door behind me and lock it. She was at the street by the time I caught up to her. Without speaking, I fell in step next to her and watched as her lips twisted into a pout.

  “I meant it when I said I’d see you out.”

  “You did.” She turned away from me and gestured to the alley. “And now we’re out.”

  I huffed. “I meant I’ll walk you to wherever you’re going. A woman, even with this beast of a dog, shouldn’t be out this late alone.”

  It was well after midnight now and the streets were pretty much deserted. Latham Hills was typically a safe area, but that didn’t mean it was smart for a woman to be alone.

  She picked up her pace and I rolled my lips together to stop from smiling. Something told me she wouldn’t like the fact I found her bravery amusing.

  “My car is just up here.” She pointed, defeat in her tone.

  I looked to where she pointed and saw a shiny, black Audi parked beneath a streetlight. It was an older A5 convertible with the top up. When it was bought, it had to cost more than just a pretty penny. The fact this beautiful but beaten woman drove a sleek convertible didn’t surprise me, and she showed no embarrassment when she beeped the locks, the lights flashing and the sound echoing in the quiet air.

  Everything about her—her money, her bruise, the fact she was hiding from something, or someone, most likely—told me to walk away. I had done my good deed.

  My heart didn’t get the message my brain was shouting because I found my mouth moving and listened to myself ask, “You need a place to stay?”

  Her shoulders tightened and her back straightened. “I thought the burger was free.” Her tone was accusing and she stepped away from me, putting space between us.

  I held my hands up, fighting a smile. She couldn’t be assuming what I thought she was. “I just meant a safe place to lay your head. I’ve got an extra room, and I don’t fuck where I shit.”

  Her face twisted into confusion. Perhaps disgust. That was pretty blunt, even for me.

  “I mean, I don’t have sex in my house. Ever.”

  “Ever?” Her brows jumped up her forehead and her eyes widened.

  That time, I did laugh. “Not since my ex-wife. Call it baggage or whatever. My point is, I don’t bring women home to have sex with, and I’m not that kind of man. You’d be safe there.”

  I hadn’t even had sex in the six months since Mara left. Hadn’t felt the desire to, either, but the rule about not fucking where I shit had been arbitrarily created in my mind, should the desire ever present itself. Mara had figuratively stabbed me in the chest with her stiletto heel on her way out the door, leaving only a note written on her personal stationery. It was stationery she’d had since before we married and she’d never ordered new stock with her married name. Apparently her stash got low, and it was either order more with my name on it or leave.

  She clearly chose the more convenient option.

  I was in no place to consider putting myself back in that situation, and I figured when I did start wanting to screw everything that moved in a clichéd rebound maneuver, women wouldn’t enter my home.

  “I’m at a hotel.”

  I pulled out my wallet and removed a business card that had my cell number on it, holding it out for her. “This has my number and you know where I work. If you need anything while you’re in town, call me—or if Boomer needs a yard to run in.”

  Her eyes flicked down to her dog and I saw her consider the idea for a brief moment.

  She licked her lips when she looked back at me, taking the card before stepping away. “Thank you. But we’re good.”

  I shrugged and slid my hands into my back pockets. “Your call.”

  “Thank you, again, for the dinner.” She held up the container of food I gave her. “And for this.”

  “Anytime.”

  As soon as I spoke the word, I realized I meant it.

  This woman was a puzzle and she had secrets.

  I didn’t really care.

  I watched her climb into her car, shoving Boomer into the backseat before he quickly climbed over the console and took a seat in the front passenger side. I couldn’t help but brush my finger along my bottom lip when she pulled into traffic.

  Her hand lifted in a quick but hesitant goodbye, and I mirrored her movements before my finger settled back on my lip.

  I wanted to help this woman.

  There was something about her vulnerability, despite trying to be strong…it called to something inside of me.

  Something my dad taught me when I was a kid and drilled into me as I grew up.

  Men were protectors.

  We may fight each other, but we didn’t fight our women. We protected them and cherished them and honored them.

  And I knew, as Trina’s headlights faded away when she turned right at the next corner, that she hadn’t had that.

  At least, not for a very long time.

  Chapter 3

  Trina

  Despite my recent past, I knew not all men were like Kevin.

  I knew that just because I married a man who ended up being a mons
ter—a man who hid his lies behind a perfect smile—it didn’t mean there weren’t still good men in the world.

  Some were decent. They had to exist.

  Some loved their women and their wives. My father, as misguided and distant as he was, never spoke an unkind word to my mother or myself. He certainly never raised his hand in anger. In fact, he was so levelheaded that I don’t think I’d ever even heard him raise his voice in anger.

  Except for the time I snuck out and took his brand-new Mercedes for a joyride just weeks after getting my license. My high school friend Kelly and I ended up wrapping that beautiful piece of steel around a telephone pole when, driving way too fast, I slid through a puddle that was deeper than it appeared, broke too hard, and popped a curb.

  That night was the first time I heard my father shout, and even then it was, “My new car!” When he turned to me, fists at the back of his neck, a vein pulsing in his temple, I cowered behind the wrecked car and stared at the man in awe as he took five cleansing breaths. Then he lowered his hands and, with disappointment clear in his eyes and his voice, asked, “Are you okay?”

  He pulled me into his arms, held me way too tight, and made me promise I’d never break the speed limit again. Or steal his car. Or sneak out.

  I would have promised him anything that night.

  In fact, I did.

  I promised him I would always listen to him. So when he introduced me to Kevin Morgenson, son of Kentucky’s beloved Senator Morgenson, at a fundraising benefit, and insisted we were perfect for each other, I didn’t think twice about it. He wanted the best for me.

  I was sometimes thankful that he passed away before he could see what my relationship turned into.

  I learned after I said “I do” that there were strings attached when you became involved with a senator’s son, one who had his eyes on his own campaign in the near future.

  You stopped being a woman.

  You began being a possession.