Chapter 14
Gunner
When the dust settled, I stood there like my boots were bolted to the gallery floor.
Everything else was in motion—contractors moving the twisted scaffold, Lysander pressing a blood-soaked napkin to his head, Brie hugging herself and refusing to meet my eyes—but I couldn’t get my brain to fire a single coherent thought except, Don’t let her be hurt.
Don’t let her be hurt. Don’t let her be…
She wasn’t. That was the insane part. She was upright, eyes wide and wild, hair full of drywall dust but her bones all in the right places.
Lysander’s arm was around her shoulders, holding her steady, and the sight of it made my jaw clench so hard my teeth nearly splintered.
Some chunk of me wanted to rip him off her, throw him through the gallery window, but the smarter part—the part that remembered I’d have been too slow to save her—wanted to thank him with every goddamn word I knew.
I settled for doing neither. I just watched.
Brie tried to joke about it, about her “trend of narrowly avoiding tragic, lawsuit-worthy death,” but her voice kept catching. She was trembling, the aftershocks still working through her, and the more she tried to act like it was nothing, the more obvious it became that it was everything.
Lysander didn’t look so hot himself. The blood running down the side of his face had slowed, but a goose egg was blooming above his left eyebrow, already purple at the edges.
Inez appeared from the back of the building and zeroed in on him, ignoring everyone else as she checked his pupils, asked if he could count to ten in reverse Spanish, then barked at the construction staff to bring ice.
Lysander shrugged her off, eyes never leaving Brie.
“I’m fine, darling.” He had a napkin pressed to his head. “But you, Brie—you have to stop being such a disaster magnet. Some of us are not built for heroics.”
Brie tried to smile. “You did okay.”
He squeezed her shoulder, and I felt my hands curl into fists. It was worse because she let him. She didn’t lean away, didn’t make a joke, just let him hold her while she got her bearings. It made my skin itch.
I stepped forward, maybe too fast, because Lysander tensed.
For a second, I thought we were gonna square up like a couple of dogs over a dropped steak, but then he caught my eye and did this little nod—like a bow, almost. A white flag.
He got what I was, what she was to me. He wasn’t here to fight.
He was here to keep her alive, same as me.
Fuck, he wasn’t even into women, and I knew that.
That nod cooled something ugly in my chest. I’d torn off a corner of my shirt for the cut on his head. He took it gratefully.
I went to Brie, held her by the arms, and checked her over like I’d never seen her before. I ran my hands up her forearms, brushed drywall out of her hair, looked in her eyes for a sign of concussion or shock. She shivered, and I caught her, pulled her in close.
“You’re okay.” I buried my face in her neck. “You’re okay.”
She nodded into my chest. “You’re crushing me, Finn.”
I loosened my hold, just a fraction. “Sorry.”
“I’m fine.” I could hear the quiver of fear in her voice. “But thanks for checking.”
She didn’t let go, though. Not for a long minute. I knew she was waiting for her heart rate to slow, for the adrenaline to bleed off. It felt good; her holding onto me. It felt necessary. I wanted to be the person she sought for safety and comfort.
Lysander dabbed at his head, then tried to laugh it off. “So much for a soft launch. The only thing soft is my skull now.” He eyed me with a strange kind of respect, like we were both members of some club neither of us had asked to join.
Inez insisted on hauling him to the Victorian Inn, muttering about ice packs and Tylenol and the inability of men to properly care for their own bodies. Lysander let her, but before he left, he turned to Brie.
“See if you can get this one to give lessons on how a man is supposed to take care of the one he loves.” Nodding at me, “because mine sure missed the mark.”
Brie gave him a sad sort of look. “Aww, honey. I’m sorry. You’ll find a guy who’ll treat you right. You’re too precious not to.”
He gave her a small smile. “You’re probably right.”
She hugged him, careful not to touch the wound. He hugged her back, tight and quick, then handed her off to me like he was passing a baton in a relay. I hated that it made sense.
I reached out and shook his hand. It was stupid, but it felt important. His grip was cold and a little damp, but strong.
“Thank you."
He just looked at me, eyes a little watery from the impact, but also sharp and clear. “Don’t let her out of your sight.” It seemed like a warning.
“Never planned to.” It was a promise as much to myself as to him.
He nodded again, then let Inez lead him away.
When they were gone, it felt like the world went quiet. The contractors continued to mumble apologies and clear away the mess. And then it was just me and Brie in the echo of all that nearly was.
I wrapped my arms around her, maybe too tight again, but she didn’t complain this time. Her face pressed to my chest, and I could feel her breath even out, slow and sure. I stroked her back, up and down, until the trembling stopped.
I gave her hand a gentle pull. “Let’s get out of here. You’ve had enough art for one day.”
She nodded, silent.
We walked to my truck; her tucked under my arm. I helped her up into the seat, careful of her head, her knees, every inch of her. It was all I could do to still my hands enough to get her fastened into her seatbelt.
She noticed, of course. She always did.
“You okay, cowboy?” Her voice went back to its regular setting.
I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt the tight band around my chest start to loosen. I gave her a quick kiss on her forehead. “I am now.”
She touched my face, soft and gentle. “You’re such a mess, Finn Walsh.”
I laughed, low and rough. “Yeah,” I said. “But I’m your mess.”
She smiled, and the world made sense again.
I shut the door, circled to the driver’s side, and got us the hell out of there.
By the time we made it back to the house, the late sun had already started to turn the porch posts gold and set the shadows sharp across the gravel drive.
I killed the ignition, then sat there a second, just holding the steering wheel and listening to her breathe.
It felt like if I took my eyes off her for even a minute, the universe might pull some fresh stunt, and this time I might not get so lucky.
Brie reached over and poked my shoulder. “Are you going to carry me inside, too?”
I played along. “Would if you asked.”
She rolled her eyes but smiled, and the sight of it let me finally unclench.
Inside, the house felt different than it ever had—it belonged to both of us now.
Her scent drifted everywhere; lemon and paint and that wild sweetness only I could really smell.
There were a pair of her boots in the hall, a half-read book on the arm of the couch, and her tote bag slouched against the wall, half its contents spilling out. Even this house knew she belonged here.
“Go shower, Maverick.” My voice was gruff and low. “Get that dust off you.”
She hesitated, scanning my face for some hidden meaning, then shrugged and headed for the back bathroom. I watched her go, memorizing every step.
While she was gone, I turned to dinner. The slow cooker had been going all day, and the smell of stew hit me the second I cracked the lid—rich and spicy, beef falling to pieces, carrots so soft they didn’t even need a knife.
I gave it a stir, then tore open the loaf of French bread I’d picked up from Aspen’s bakery.
I cut thick slices, arranged them in the basket, and set the table with the real bowls.
It felt important, doing things right tonight.
Every minute or so I glanced down the hall, half expecting her to call for help, or to need something, or to just vanish. I caught myself doing it and tried to stop, but it was like my body wouldn’t cooperate.
Brie took her time in the shower, which was out of character. When she finally came out, she was wrapped in her silky robe, hair wrapped in a towel turban. She looked pink and scrubbed, like all the day’s terror had finally been washed away.
She leaned in the kitchen doorway, watching me work.
“You going to let me help, or just be your trophy wife tonight?”
I pretended to weigh the question. She wasn’t officially my wife yet. I had every intention of remedying that. “Sit. You’ve had a hell of a day.”
She grinned, and for once, she did as she was told without an argument.
She curled up at the head of the table, folding one leg underneath her, and watched as I ladled out the stew.
I made sure to give her the best pieces—the ones with the fat melting off and the big hunks of carrot.
I set the bowl in front of her and poured her a glass of tea.
“Smells like heaven.” She breathed in the aroma with her eyes closed. “You’d make someone a damn fine wife.”
“Look who has jokes." Fuck, she made me happy.
She laughed, and my world brightened at the sound.
I sat beside her, just watching her. She dug in, bread in one hand, spoon in the other, and for a while the only sound was her eating. Every time she looked up, I was staring.
She caught me at it, finally. “What? Do I have pepper in my teeth or something?"
“Just making sure you’re still here.”
She went quiet, then reached across and took my hand.
“I’m not going anywhere, Finn. Not tonight. Not ever.”
I swallowed, then nodded. “Good.”
We ate the rest in an easy rhythm; her telling me about the gallery plans, how Lysander wanted to hang the biggest canvas right in the window, how he’d gotten her to agree to paint a mural on the alley wall.
Her hands moved as she talked, animated and alive, her eyes bright in a way that I’d never seen.