Chapter 48
The drive back was quiet.
Not awkward-quiet. Not angry or unsure. Just… easy. We didn’t need to talk. It was like the space between us was finally soft again.
His hand was resting on my thigh. Not possessive, not intentional. Just there — like it belonged. Like it had always been there.
And God help me, I could barely breathe.
He was looking straight ahead, his profile bathed in early morning gold, the swollen corner of his lip tugging up just slightly. That damn cowboy smirk. That bruised mouth. That hand on my leg, like he didn’t even know what he was doing to me.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
His thumb dragged slowly across the inside of my thigh, and I swore my heartbeat stumbled. “Now I am.”
I looked out the window before I did something stupid. Like cry. Or crawl back into his lap. We drove like that for a while — his hand burning through the fabric of my pajama pants, my pulse trying to escape through my throat.
Then, quietly — “You ever think about how weird this is?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
He grinned, still not looking at me. “You. Me. Jail. Breakfast. My hand on your thigh.”
I choked on a breath, heat crawling up my neck. “Subtle.”
He finally turned to look at me, all slow smile and low voice. “Wouldn’t want to scare you off again.”
“Asshole.”
“Technically, a criminal asshole.”
I tried to glare. Failed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Sure am.” He squeezed my leg. “Best morning I’ve had in weeks.”
I didn’t say anything. Just covered his hand with mine for a second. Pressed down. Told him in the only language I knew that I wanted this. Him. Us. All of it.
We were turning onto his street when I saw them.
Parked SUVs. Long lenses glinted in the sun. Someone pretending to tie their shoe for a full two minutes while snapping photos from their phone.
“Oh no,” I muttered.
“Oh yes,” Ansel said.
He didn’t even look fazed.
“They’re gonna think I’m your criminal mastermind girlfriend,” I hissed.
“I mean… would they be wrong?” He shrugged as if he weren’t mad about it. “Could be worse. You could be on Joel’s arm.”
I shoved him, sticking my tongue out. But he just laughed, squeezing my thigh again as he pulled into the driveway.
The flashes started almost immediately. The moment the car stopped. Brutal, bright, a thousand white-hot sparks across the windshield.
“Smile for the cameras, sweetheart,” he said under his breath.
“If I flip them off, is that considered bad PR?”
“Only if you’re not wearing my jacket while you do it.”
He was already climbing out. Circling around to open my door like this was a red carpet.
And maybe it was.
He reached for me. Not my hand — my waist. His fingers curling there, hot and steady.
“C’mon, June Bug,” he murmured, voice soft and low and just for me. “Let’s give them something to write about.”
And the second our feet hit the pavement, it was chaos.
“Ansel, did you really assault Joel Forrester?”
“Is it true that Haddock is Forrester’s ex-fiancée?”
“Did she bail you out?”
“Is this a PR stunt or a breakdown?”
“ANSWERS, ANSEL — OVER HERE — LOOK THIS WAY!”
He kept walking. Calm. Unbothered.
And he didn’t let go of my hand.
We were almost there. It was almost over…
Whack.
One swung too close. The hard plastic edge of a lens smacked into my shoulder, jarring enough that I stumbled with a soft gasp, pain blooming sharp and immediate.
And Ansel snapped.
His hand left my waist in an instant. “Hey — HEY!” His voice boomed, louder than I’d ever heard it. A growl, almost. Primal. “Back the fuck off—”
The crowd hushed in a way chaos sometimes does, like the eye of a storm. And then —
“Don’t touch her,” Ansel snarled, chest heaving as he pointed a finger at the man with the camera. “You get that close again, and I swear to God—”
“Sir, relax—”
“No, I’ve already been to jail once this morning for assaulting a man. You think I care if I make it two before noon? Back away from her.”
I realized then my shoulder was bleeding. A small cut, but enough. He turned to me, breathing hard. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. Barely.
And then he really turned on them.
“You want a fucking photo? Take it now. Take a good, long look at the guy who’s gonna make sure every single one of you never works again if you so much as breathe in her direction without permission.”
It wasn’t just anger in his voice. It was power. The type of rage that didn’t need yelling to be heard.
He didn’t wait for a reply. Just took my hand again, jaw tight, and guided me the rest of the way to the door — opening it, pulling me in, shutting the world behind us.
Inside, everything was quiet.
I was shaking. My shoulder throbbed.
“Let me see,” he said softly. Voice gentler now, like a switch had flipped. He was already guiding me to sit down at the edge of the entryway bench.
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not.”
“It’s a scratch,” I laughed, trying to wave it off. “Seriously. I’ve gotten worse from opening cardboard boxes.”
But he was already stalking down the hallway, returning seconds later with a half-stocked first-aid kit and that wild look still in his eyes. “Sit.”
“Ansel—”
“Sit,” he repeated, gentler this time, voice already softening even as the tremble in his fingers betrayed him.
I sat.
He crouched between my knees, hands careful as he peeled back my sleeve, frowning at the small scrape like it personally offended him. His fingers brushed against the cut, and his jaw ticked.
“You’re shaking,” I murmured.
“I know,” he bit out. “Jesus, Juniper. They swarmed you. That asshole hit you.”
“I’m okay.”
“You could’ve fallen. Could’ve cracked your head. Could’ve gotten trampled.”
I reached for his wrist, thumb stroking over the frantic pulse there. “But I didn’t.”
He didn’t say anything — just pressed an alcohol wipe to my shoulder a little too roughly.
“Ow,” I hissed. “You trying to punish me or help me?
His gaze flicked up, sharp. “Sorry. Sorry — I’m not — fuck. I’m trying to be calm about this.”
“You’re failing.” I attempted a smile, but the concern in his eyes was too much.
“I know.”
He bandaged it with too much tape. When he was done, he didn’t move away — just stayed there, crouched between my knees, hands on my thighs, head bowed like he was trying to catch his breath.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to hit someone more in my life,” he said, voice low. “Except maybe Joel.”
My breath caught.
“You should be proud of me, baby. I didn’t even punch that guy,” he added after a beat, like that proved how strong he was being.
I tilted his chin up until his eyes met mine. “You’re kind of terrifying like this.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“I know,” I whispered, sliding my fingers into his hair. “But it’s also… kind of hot.”
That broke the tension — just a little.
His mouth twitched.
“You’re bleeding and you’re flirting?”
“You’re flaring your nostrils and monologuing like Batman — what do you expect me to do?”
He huffed a laugh, resting his forehead against my sternum. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
Slowly, so as not to startle him, I slid off the bench, kneeling in front of him. My hands found his cheeks, cupping his face gently. His arms came around my waist, holding me tight — as if he needed to hold on to something to keep him from flying apart.
My fingers slid into his hair, soft and slow, and I felt the breath he took — deep, shaking, like he was trying to be calm for me. Like he didn’t trust himself not to storm back outside and put someone through a wall.
“Hey,” I whispered.
He didn’t meet my eyes.
“You’re scaring me a little, cowboy.”
His arms tightened around me. “I don’t mean to.” He finally looked up. Eyes blazing. Lips parted. Still furious, still shaking. Still mine.
And I couldn’t help it.
I kissed him.
I pulled him down and caught his mouth with mine, slow and deep and aching, like I could soothe the tremble out of his bones with nothing but my kiss. His hands tightened around my waist, then slid to my back, pulling me closer until I could barely breathe.
It wasn’t desperate like it had been in the car. It was slower. Heavier. Hotter somehow, because it wasn’t about getting lost — it was about finding each other again.
His tongue slid against mine, and I whimpered into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders. He pulled back just enough to kiss the corner of my lips, my cheek, my jaw, like he couldn’t get enough, like he was drinking me in one piece at a time.
“You’re killing me,” he murmured.
“Funny,” I breathed, “I was about to say the same thing.”
He laughed — a breathy, broken sound against my throat. And then he stood, lifted me in one smooth motion, and started walking toward the kitchen with me in his arms like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“What are you doing?” I asked, half-laughing, half-melting.
“Making tea,” he said, nuzzling behind my ear. “If I don’t channel this energy somewhere useful, I’m going to do something really unproductive.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Define unproductive.”
He set me down on the counter, stepping between my legs with his hands braced on either side of my hips.
“Messy. Desperate. Possibly illegal in this state.”
I bit my lip. “...Wanna define messy?”
He groaned and kissed me again — rougher this time, but still pulling back just before it could go too far.
“I want to,” he said, forehead pressed to mine, voice a little wrecked. “But I’m not going to. Not yet.”
“You’re such a good man, it’s honestly offensive.” I hooked my feet around the back of his legs, pulling him closer. “You don’t have to be.” Sliding my hand up his chest, I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling his mouth back to mine.
This kiss was rougher, messier. Maybe even the right amount of unproductive that Ansel needed. Without breaking the kiss, I searched for his hand, dragging it up to cup my breast. “Touch me,” I whimpered against his lips. “I need you to touch me, baby.”
His breath hitched — like I’d shocked the air right out of him.