Chapter 4 Jack
FOUR
JACK
She walks through the crowd like she doesn’t know she’s a magnet.
For chaos.
For danger.
For me.
Stella Hart is a walking contradiction—sugar and spark, soft hands and reckless courage. And ever since she ran face-first into my chest covered in cupcakes and sunshine, I’ve been circling her like a storm with no intention of touching down.
Until now.
Until the feeling in my chest grows so sharp I swear it could cut steel.
She’s laughing with a group of tourists near the bake sale table, arms gesturing wildly as she tells a story I already know will end with glitter and a goat. Her hair’s falling out of its ponytail, her cheeks are flushed from the heat, and I’ve got a bad case of can’t look away.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
“You good?” one of the Lone Star rookies—Maverick—asks beside me.
“Fine,” I lie. My jaw tightens. “What’s the word from the firework team?”
“They’re still checking inventory. Looks like someone tried to move a crate. Marshal’s filing a report.”
I nod but barely hear him. My eyes are on Stella.
Because just as I feared, some idiot cowboy is leaning too close, flashing a grin, clearly trying to impress her with whatever Valor Springs boys use in place of charm. She laughs again—friendly, polite—and something in my chest snaps.
“Excuse me,” I mutter.
I cross the square without thinking. Without caring that I’m technically just her bodyguard or that she’s not mine—because she damn well is.
She’s not looking for me when I step in. But the second she sees me, her smile changes. Softer. Real. Like maybe she feels it too—that pull between us that’s getting harder to ignore.
“Hey, Agent Cupcake,” she teases, tilting her head. “Miss me?”
“You good?” I ask instead, not bothering to smile at the cowboy still standing a few inches too close.
“Oh yeah.” She nods, lifting a cupcake like a peace offering. “Keeping the tourists well-fed and mildly confused. Standard teacher protocol.”
The guy beside her laughs, oblivious. “You from out of town, man?”
“No.” I lock eyes with him. “I’m security.”
Stella blinks. “Jack—”
“Assigned to Stella,” I add, just a notch too sharp. “So if you’re finished flirting, she’s got somewhere to be.”
“I do?” she says, half amused, half suspicious.
“Yes.” I lean in closer, voice low. “With me.”
The guy clears his throat, gives Stella a nod, and mumbles something about kettle corn before wandering off. She watches him go, then looks up at me with that patented Stella expression—half sunshine, half sass.
“Possessive much?” she murmurs.
“Careful,” I say. “I haven’t even started.”
Her breath catches. Just a little.
“Jack,” she says softly, “you can’t just growl at every man who talks to me.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Seriously,” she says, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re overreacting. That guy sells hand-knit socks and dreams of owning a candle store.”
“Doesn’t matter. You smiled. He leaned in. I didn’t like it.”
Her brows lift. “You didn’t like it?”
I step a little closer, until we’re nearly toe to toe. “No, Stella. I didn’t. I don’t like anyone being that close to you but me.”
Her lips part slightly. I can see the pulse flutter in her neck. And I have to fight the overwhelming urge to lean in and press my mouth to the spot just below her ear—just to see if it tastes as sweet as she smells.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers, eyes darting to the crowd.
“Yup,” I agree, not moving an inch. “One of the worst.”
“But you’re still here.”
“I am.”
She lets out a shaky breath and turns slightly, half shielding herself behind the bake sale table like she’s trying to put space between us.
It doesn’t work.
I just step to the side again. Blocking. Guarding. Watching the way she presses her thighs together like she’s trying to anchor herself.
“You feel it too,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t have to.
Her eyes tell me everything.
“I’m not a little girl,” she says after a beat, straightening her shoulders. “I don’t need you hovering.”
“Too late.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“I know,” I say. “But you’re mine to protect.”
Her mouth opens, closes. “You can’t say things like that, Jack.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my brother’s friend. Because I bake cookies and wear pink sneakers and you wear bulletproof vests and probably keep grenades in your truck.”
“They’re in the glove box,” I say, deadpan.
She laughs, and I swear I’d brave a war zone for that sound. “Okay, Rambo,” she says, biting her lip. “What now?”
“Now,” I say, scanning the crowd behind her again, “you stay in sight. You don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t drive yourself home. And you keep your phone on.”
“You’re really doing this, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until the threats stop.”
“And if they don’t?”
I step closer again, lowering my voice to a promise. “Then I don’t stop either.”
She looks up at me like she wants to argue—but all she does is nod.
Quiet. Soft. Trusting.
And just like that, it’s over for me.
I’ll kill for her.
I’ll die for her.
But God help me—I might already be falling for her.
And I don’t know how the hell to stop.