Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
SCARLETT
The second we step out of the building, I start to breathe again. Still half-measured, but enough to stop my lungs from burning.
“Scarlett.”
I don’t stop.
The Nevada heat hits like a wall, dry and sharp, sunlight bouncing off glass and chrome and everything that makes this city impossible to hide in.
Everywhere I look there are too many people, too many eyes, too much exposure. What was I thinking coming here?
But the truth is, anyone could recognize me.
Newspapers and online outlets generously spread my image, especially after I agreed to testify.
It was a bigger case than I ever could’ve imagined because it involved connections, scandal, money…
lots of it. That’s why I needed official protection in the first place.
“Scarlett.”
Donovan’s hand closes gently but firmly around my arm. It’s enough to bring me to a stop.
I turn, faster than I mean to. “Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended.
His brow pulls down slightly, but he doesn’t let go. “Talk to me,” he says.
I shake my head, immediately scanning the street without meaning to. Faces blur past. Tourists. Couples. No one looking at me.
No one’s watching. That doesn’t mean anything. Because after the clerk’s question, I still feel like all eyes are on me.
“She recognized me,” I say under my breath.
“Said you looked familiar is all,” he answers calmly.
“You didn’t see her face.”
“I saw yours.”
That stops me. I drag in a breath, forcing myself to look at him.
Unlike me, the towering cowboy fireman remains a force to be reckoned with. He’s grounded and solid. Like nothing in the world could shake him.
“You keep saying I don’t understand. But I could,” he says, eyes shadowed beneath his Stetson. “If you’d start talking and start trusting me.”
Trust. That’s something I can’t even entertain. I pull my arm free, wrapping it around myself. “Sorry to cut this short, but we need to leave.” My voice comes out steady, but it doesn’t feel that way.
“Okay but only if you start talking.” His eyes drop to the papers in my hand. “And if you don’t, I’m not signing anything.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“You have a lot of explaining to do. Between what you said about your name… your reaction to that woman. Even last night, when you said you needed to feel safe. I’m not walking away without some answers, and a guarantee that you’re safe.”
Safe. There it is. The man he is. It touches a place deep inside me that wants to believe in him and things like this. I open my mouth, then close it again. Because I don’t know what to say or where to start.
I didn’t expect pushback from him. Or the need for answers. Not out of curiosity or to be in control or intrusive. No, this feels like he genuinely cares. Something I haven’t felt since everything fell apart.
I press my fingers to my temples. I’m still struggling to string two thoughts together.
“I’ll tell you everything. But only after we get back to Sacramento.”
His jaw tightens, and he nods once. “We should go back to the hotel room, then. Change our flights,” he says. “Soonest out.”
My chest tightens. Even though I need to go home, there’s a resistance, too. Like going back confirms I can’t run from my past no matter how hard I try.
His gaze flicks up to mine. “I want to help you, Scarlett. That’s all.”
There it is. The firefighter in him. The man who rushes into burning buildings to save people. “But I don’t want to involve you, make this any harder—”
“Doesn’t have to be any harder than we make it, right?” he asks.
I swallow. “But you’re missing the point. This isn’t your problem. I’m not your problem.”
His jaw tightens. “No, you’re not. You’re the best night I’ve had in recent memory. Not gonna walk away from that like it’s nothing.”
“Donovan,” I say carefully.
His expression shifts—just slightly—going softer. “Yeah?”
“You deserve better than this. Than me.” The words scrape on the way out as if I don’t believe them. Maybe I want him to argue.
He studies me for a second. Long enough that I almost look away.
“What I do and don’t deserve isn’t up to you.
Now, let’s work on getting out of here and back home.
You’ll tell me everything, and I’ll help you.
It’s that simple.” His voice trails off, and then his eyes find me again. “No ties unless you want them.”
I can’t help but laugh at the irony of his words, staring down at the ring of fire around my finger. “Too late for that.”
His gaze sharpens. “It wasn’t all bad last night. Was it?”
No. Yes.
I don’t know.
“It wasn’t bad at all,” I say. A total understatement. That’s the problem. It was amazing when I get past the hangover part.
He flashes me a lopsided grin, and my heart softens behind my ribs. “But I don’t get to want things like this,” I add quietly.
Something flickers across his face. “Everybody gets to want something,” he says.
“Not like this.”
“Why not?”
Because the last time I wanted something, I lost everything. I press my lips together, shaking my head. “I’ll explain later.”
His eyes are warm and attentive, his face open and honest. Everything I should want in a man. Everything I do want… if I was allowed to want anything.
Silence stretches between us. The city moves around us, loud and relentless, but it feels distant. Like we’re standing still while everything else keeps going.
“You’re asking me to walk away,” he says finally.
“I am.”
“Not gonna happen.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“I’m not walking away from you,” he says simply.
My chest tightens. “I know I’m repeating myself, but you don’t understand what I could bring into your life.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s not something you get to decide.”
“Feels like it is.”
I let out a shaky breath. This is going wrong. So very, very wrong.
“Donovan—”
“Scarlett.”
The way he says it wrecks me. Like it matters. Like I matter.
I hate it. I want more of it.
God, what’s wrong with me?
Make up your mind already.
“We need to go,” I say again, softer now.
He hesitates—just for a second—like he might say something else. Like he might stop me. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he nods once, turning toward the street. He lifts a hand to flag down a cab.
My fingers are shaking. Not from fear but from everything I’m trying not to feel. I curl them into the paperwork, feeling the weight of it all.
Get it together. This is the right choice. Leaving is always the right choice.
I know this… even if it feels like the worst one I’ve ever made.
A cab pulls up. Donovan opens the door for me without a word, and I slide inside.
He follows, and the door shuts, the frenetic city disappearing behind glass.
And just like that, there’s no going back.
I tell myself I’m doing the right thing.
But if this is right, then why does it feel so wrong?