3. Jem
Three
Jem
I t takes a while for me to get used to having a huge, rough, brooding man behind my candle stall, taking up space with his long limbs and occasionally asking me questions in a rumbling voice, but once I do…
Once I do.
Holy shit. I haven’t relaxed like this in weeks. Not since my first date with Peter, when some part of my body tensed up and never unwound. My neck aches from the constant strain I’ve been carrying.
Now Peter’s still out there, scheming and stalking and being gross, and I know that, but I’m not afraid of him. Not for the next… twenty three hours, at least.
“These are lovely,” a woman in a suit says, picking up the candles to sniff them one by one. I beam at her, sitting straighter in my chair, so tragically pleased to get complimented in front of Axel.
See , I want to say to him. I’m not a total mess.
“Which do you like best?” the woman asks my bodyguard, pinning him with her no-nonsense gaze. “I want to buy one for my husband. Which do you recommend?”
Pressing my lips together, I turn and stare up at the man standing behind my shoulder. Axel leans against the market wall, arms folded across his chest, and I know from all my stolen glances so far that he’s been scanning the crowd non-stop, on constant alert for danger. He jolts now, dragging his attention back to the stall like a fisherman drawing in a line.
“What?” he says.
I wince.
“Your favorite.” The woman’s suit is cut nicely, like it’s tailored for her. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to feel scratty in my ripped jeans and sweater. “Which candle do you like best?”
Axel grunts, then frowns down at the candles, scanning the labels. He hasn’t sniffed a single one yet, and it’d be totally fair for him to say so—he’s my bodyguard, not a sales assistant. He doesn’t owe me this help.
Yet Axel points at a cluster of candles by the table’s edge: ginger and sour apple. “Those ones.”
Thirty seconds later, the woman’s card swishes through the card reader, and she plunges back into the crowd with a box tucked under her arm. I laugh happily and turn to my new, completely unexpected white knight. Yes, I hired this man to watch my back for twenty four hours—but I didn’t pay him to help me sell my wares. I’m so grateful to finally have someone on my side, I could sing.
Axel’s still leaning against the wall, his motorcycle leathers straining at his bulky shoulders and strong arms. He raises a dark eyebrow when he catches me staring.
“You’re the best,” I say.
Axel’s cheeks turn pink above his beard. He looks a whole lot less mean when he blushes like that.
“I’m going to find us another chair.” I start to get up. “Wait here.”
But a huge hand lands on my shoulder, gentle but firm, pinning me in my seat.
“That’s not how this works,” Axel says. “ You wait here, and stay where I can see you. I’ll go find something.”
My mouth is dry, and the heat of his calloused palm scorches the bare skin of my shoulder. As long as this man’s hand is on my body, my insides are rioting, with tiny fireworks going off in my belly. Crap, is this normal?
“…Okay.”
My bodyguard squeezes past me, careful not to knock any candles over, his leathers creaking softly and his scent drawing into my lungs. Soap and rain and something electric, like the air just before a thunderstorm.
Hurry back , I want to call, and not just because I feel so vulnerable and exposed without him gone.
Because my bodyguard is an addictive presence.
* * *
The sky dims high above the domed glass ceiling, and electric lanterns glow to life around the maze of the market hall. Everything is cast with a warm glow, and the crowd gradually shifts from daytime shoppers to the after-work crowd, rubbing shoulders in their finely cut suits.
A few new stalls open up in the food section, their wire grates trundling up as they open for business. Curries and pizzas and tacos, everything smelling so delicious. Suddenly alcohol is for sale, and the crowd gets louder, looser, all while I’m tucked safely behind my table, my chair so close to Axel’s that our legs keep brushing.
Every time they do, every time there’s that split-second of contact, the air hiccups in my lungs. And Axel’s so big and broad that we accidentally nudge each other often, reaching over to pass each other candles and the card reader, so by the time the evening draws in, I’m a squirmy mess.
“How’d you get into this?” Axel asks. He’s leaning forward, fussing over the candle display, and I can’t help watching the shift of his back muscles beneath his dark red t-shirt. He shucked his leather jacket an hour ago, draping it over the back of his borrowed chair.
“My mom,” I start to say, but my voice cracks and I have to try again. Axel pauses, then settles back into his seat to listen, his eyes scanning the crowd. “My mom used to make candles as a hobby. It was kinda her thing, and she taught me when I was about twelve. Then it was ours, the thing we did together. After she died…”
I trail off, pulse thudding in my ears. Even years later, I hate talking about this. Hate thinking about it, even though it crosses my mind every hour of every day, and I’m pretty sure it will for the rest of my life.
A big hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes me there, and it’s the same touch from earlier, but this time I lean into it. Can’t explain why. Maybe all these accidental leg brushes have made me bold, eroding the normal personal boundaries that exist between virtual strangers, or maybe I’m just too exhausted to keep fighting all the time.
Because Axel feels good. He’s a soothing presence, solid as a rock, and he’s been helping me sell candles all afternoon, chatting steadily in that rumbly voice of his. Maybe I don’t really know him, maybe I’m fooling myself that there’s some kind of connection here, but…
I don’t care.
His hand on my shoulder feels good, so I lean into his touch.
“I had to support myself,” I finish. Not such a long story after all. “And candles are what I’m good at.”
Axel grunts in agreement, giving my shoulder one final squeeze before picking up the closest candle and sniffing it deeply. He nods in appreciation, then sets it back down with a dull thud.
“Never bought a candle before, but I’d buy one of yours,” he says.
I bite my lip against a smile. “You can pick one for free. As a thank you for selling so many today.”
Axel’s smile is here and gone so fast, I nearly miss it, then my bodyguard settles back in his seat and folds his arms across his chest. The dark ink of his tattoos looks intricate, almost like the designs are shifting and changing in the low light. It’s eerie in here, but beautiful too.
Where else does Axel have ink? On his chest? His back?
Would he show me if I asked? Let me trace the designs with my fingertip?
“You look hungry,” my bodyguard says after a while, and lord, he has no idea. With his muscled bulk folded next to me in this small space, his body heat tickling my side, I’m hungry for things I’ve never wanted before in my life. I’m starving.
For a heavy weight settling on top of my body.
The rasp of a beard against my throat.
Thick fingers sliding into my panties, grazing my clit before they press deeper—
“Jem.”
“Sorry?” I blink at the man beside me, dazed. Where the hell did that come from?
Axel’s dark eyes glint with amusement, like he followed my whole train of thought just then and enjoyed what he saw. “I said, do you want pizza or curry? I’m buying.”
“Pizza,” I say faintly, then my manners catch up. “Please! And thank you. Um, you don’t have to pay, though—”
“Too late.” Axel unfolds from his chair like a mythical giant rising from his throne. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll come straight back. Stay right there.”
I raise my palms in surrender, because hey, my legs wouldn’t work right now anyway. “I’m staying, I’m staying.”
He’s a whole head taller than the rest of the crowd, shouldering his way easily back into the crush. There’s something hypnotic about the way Axel moves—like a panther prowling through the jungle. Graceful and predatory.
I shiver.
Other people notice it too, moving automatically out of his way, so that the crowd parts around him like a stone in the river, and soon enough, he’s out of sight.
My heart rattles against my rib cage, and I scrub both palms along my jeans. It’s new, this jittery feeling bouncing around inside me—it’s not fear, or loneliness, or existential dread. It’s… excitement.
Does Axel feel it too?
Or am I making a fool of myself?
Oh, god. What if he’s just being friendly with me? What if he’s just nice ? What if Axel has people fawning over him everyday, swept up in how freaking good it feels in the safety of his presence? What if he privately rolls his eyes about it, sick of being everyone’s bodyguard crush?
I’m so busy chewing on my thumbnail, slouched and morbid in my chair, that I don’t realize I’m no longer alone. Not until Peter clears his throat, standing a foot in front of the table.
My veins frost over inside me, but I force my face to stay blank as I look up at my ex boyfriend. My tormentor; the man who broke into my apartment last night and stole my favorite photo of my mom. The guy who’s declared himself my own personal bogeyman.
“Oh,” I say, fighting to sound bored. “It’s you.”
Peter bristles, an ugly flush climbing his throat above his shirt collar. See, he was already pissed off that I didn’t notice him lurking—that he had to clear his throat to get my attention. He doesn’t like that; doesn’t want me to forget my fear, not even for a moment. It lessens his power over me.
And Peter is all about power—but not Axel’s graceful, contained type of power. No, this asshole just wants to control people. He probably pulled the wings off butterflies as a kid.
“Who’s the guy?” Peter tugs at his shirt cuffs.“Not your usual type.”
Anger fists in my gut, and I tilt my head, holding his gaze. “You have no idea about my type, Peter. You just know it’s not you.”
And I’d never be this bold, never rile this complete psychopath like this, except I’ve seen something Peter hasn’t: a tall, bearded biker storming through the crowd toward us, wearing a scowl that promises violence.
My heart rate settles, and even when Peter’s jaw clenches with anger, I smile up at him sweetly.
“Slut,” he spits out. “To move on so fast, and to gutter trash like that. You must truly be desperate—”
A scarred hand fists in the back of Peter’s collar, lifting him clean off the ground. I watch, thrilled, as Axel shakes my stalker like a naughty kitten, ignoring the hands batting at him like he can’t feel them at all.
“Fucking terrible manners,” Axel says, and he sounds almost cheerful. Like he’s enjoying this; like he’s been waiting for an excuse to get his blood pumping all day. “I should rip your tongue out. See if you can call the lady names then.”
Peter splutters, his face bright red as he swipes blindly behind him. He’s struggling, helpless, and vicious satisfaction fills me at the sight.
“Come on, then.” Axel jiggles Peter aloft with one hand, like the weight of a grown man is no trouble at all. “You get one free warning, then you’re done. Time for the two of us to have a chat outside.”
Peter stares at me, bug-eyed and legs kicking, as the two wheel around and plunge back into the knot of market-goers. People scramble out of Axel’s way so fast, they smack into tables and bounce off walls. I watch them go in a daze, blushing when people turn back and stare at me in amazement—like they can’t believe an ordinary girl like me could cause so much trouble.
I know how they feel. This whole situation is bananas.
When Axel comes back ten minutes later, he’s holding two pizza boxes and scowling worse than before. His expression clears when his eyes meet mine, the hardness of his features softening.
“Here.” Axel sets the pizza boxes on the edge of the table and moves to squeeze into the stall. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got one with everything and one plain. You can pick—”
I’m out of my chair before either of us realize, scrambling round the table and flinging myself into my bodyguard’s arms. He catches me easily, holding me aloft against his broad chest, so much gentler than the way he held Peter, and the rumble of his surprised laughter vibrates all the way down to my bones.
“Thank you,” I babble, burying my face in the crook of his neck. Axel’s short beard tickles my cheek, and I can’t believe I’m doing this, can’t believe Peter is finally gone, can’t believe that pizza is for me. I’m so freaking hungry . “Thank you so much. Thank you, thank you. You’re the best man I ever met.”
A chin nudges my temple, and Axel’s big arms hold me close. “It’s a pizza, Jem, not the Holy Grail.”
I snort against his shoulder. “Might as well be.”
And that’s his cue to set me down, for both us to clear our throats and laugh this off, but Axel doesn’t. He holds me for a few heartbeats longer, our bodies pressed together, our lungs sharing the same air.
People are staring, but I don’t care. My cheeks are bright red, but I don’t care. This is where I want to spend the rest of my days: cradled in the safety of Axel’s arms, with a low, needy throb pulsing between my thighs.
God . Puffing out a sigh, I squirm even closer, relishing the hardness of his body, trying to imagine how it would feel pressing me into a mattress. How I could throw my whole strength against him and never worry about being too much.
“So,” Axel says, and he sounds strained. He sets me down carefully then takes an exaggerated step back, putting some space between our bodies. “Plain or everything pizza? Better pick before it gets cold.”
“Half and half,” I say, shuffling back behind the stall on wobbly legs. “Everybody wins.”
My bodyguard follows, his heat and strength at my back, and I collapse into my seat with jelly legs.
These twenty-four hours are going to ruin me.