Chapter 1 #4
I walked with Mr. Wakes toward the main path.
As I did, I hugged my arms across my chest, trying to stop the trembling that had overtaken my body.
Without a word, Mr. Wakes slipped his jacket off and draped it over my shoulders.
The material was warm from his body and smelled of sandalwood, clean sweat and a faint, expensive cologne.
The jacket engulfed me, its sleeves hanging well past my hands, but its weight felt reassuring, like armor.
"Thank you," I managed, clutching the edges of the jacket tighter around me. The lining was smooth against my bare arms, and I resisted the urge to bury my face in its collar to breathe in more of his scent.
He nodded once. No unnecessary flourishes, no wasted words.
We reached the main path, and in the glow of the sodium lights I could see my savior’s face clearly for the first time—a strong jawline shadowed with stubble, high cheekbones, and piercing gray eyes that swept over me with clinical precision.
He wasn't conventionally handsome—his features were too sharp, too serious for that.
But there was something compelling about the intensity of his gaze, the controlled power in his compact frame.
He was solidly built, not tall but broad through the shoulders and chest, his plain black t-shirt stretched across powerful muscles.
"Let me take you home," he offered, his voice lower now that we were alone.
I should have hesitated. Should have considered the wisdom of getting into a car with a man I'd just met, regardless of the fact that he'd saved me from another man. But the thought of waiting for an Uber, of being alone even for those few minutes, was unbearable.
"Yes," I said. "Please."
He nodded again, then gestured toward the north entrance. "My car's this way."
He moved with a slight limp, favoring his right leg in a way that was barely perceptible but caught my attention nonetheless. It didn't slow him down or seem to cause him pain, but it added a rhythm to his gait that was distinctly his own.
"I'm Chad," he said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Chad Wakes."
"Daliah," I replied, suddenly aware that I hadn't introduced myself during the chaos.
"Daliah," he repeated, as if testing the name, seeing how it felt in his mouth. He gave a small nod, apparently approving.
We reached the park's north entrance, where a black SUV sat in the nearly empty parking lot. It was clean but not flashy, practical rather than showy. He opened the passenger door for me, waiting until I was seated before closing it with a solid thunk.
He slid into the driver's seat with fluid grace, despite the slight limp.
"So. Where to?" he asked, starting the engine.
And then, to my surprise, a thought popped into my head that—thank goodness—I didn’t voice. I stopped myself just short of saying, “Wherever you want to take me.”
***
I clutched my purse to my chest as Chad's truck rolled to a stop outside my apartment building.
My fingers still trembled – leftover adrenaline from earlier, I told myself, not the effect of sitting next to him in the close confines of his vehicle.
The heater had been blasting the whole ride, but goosebumps still prickled along my arms every time he shifted gears and his knuckles brushed against my knee.
"This is me," I said, pointing unnecessarily at the three-story brick building.
Chad nodded, steering into a parking spot with military precision. He killed the engine, and the sudden silence felt heavy between us.
"I'll walk you up."
He didn't wait for my response, just got out and came around to my side. I took his offered hand before I could think better of it. His palm was warm and calloused, engulfing mine completely.
At my door, I fumbled with my keys, dropping them once before managing to get them into the lock. The jangle seemed obscenely loud in the quiet hallway.
"Sorry," I muttered, not sure what I was apologizing for.
"Take your time," Chad said, his voice lower than before. It did something to my insides, that voice. Made them twist and heat in ways I wasn't prepared for.
The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open a few inches.
"You'll be okay now?" he asked instead, eyes scanning the visible slice of my apartment before returning to my face.
"Yes. Thank you. For everything." The words came out breathier than I intended. "Would you like to come in for a drink? Coffee or something?"
A muscle in his jaw tightened. For a second, I thought I saw something flash in his eyes—interest, maybe—but then it was gone, replaced by that steady, assessing gaze.
"Another time, maybe," he said.
I nodded, unsure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Then his hand moved to the pocket of his jacket, and I froze, irrationally imagining a gun or badge. Instead, he pulled out a small rectangle of cardstock.
"Here," he said, holding it out to me.
I took it, fingers brushing his again. The card was heavy, cream-colored with crisp black lettering. "Wake's Jujitsu Academy," it read, with an address about fifteen minutes from my salon. On the back, someone had written a phone number in precise, angular handwriting.
"That's my personal cell," Chad said, nodding at the handwritten digits. "Academy number's on the front, but you can reach me directly on that one."
I stared at the card, confused. "I don't understand."
Chad shifted his weight, the first sign of anything less than perfect composure I'd seen from him.
"Self-defense," he said, his deep voice dropping even lower. "It's not just about fighting back. It's about carrying yourself differently. Recognizing danger before it gets close." He paused, eyes holding mine. "Building confidence."
"I'm not exactly athletic," I said, the words automatic. My hand went to my hip, a gesture I wasn't even aware of until I caught him tracking the movement.
"It's not about that," he said firmly. "Athleticism doesn't matter in jujitsu. Technique does. Leverage. Awareness." Another pause. "Mind over matter."
The way he said it made me believe him, just a little. Like he wasn't feeding me a line, but stating a fact as obvious as gravity.
"I can help you," he continued. "Teach you to protect yourself. Private lessons, if you prefer, until you're comfortable with a group setting."
His eyes never left mine as he spoke, and something in them made my stomach flip. There was no pity there, no condescension. Just a steady, unwavering focus that made me feel like I was the only person in the world.
"I don't know," I said, fingers tightening around the card. "I'm not sure I'd be any good at—"
"Everyone starts somewhere," he cut in. "I've taught grandmothers and teenagers. Corporate executives and stay-at-home moms."
"I don't know if I'm brave enough," I admitted, surprising myself with my honesty.
Chad's gaze intensified, his eyes boring into mine with an almost physical force. "Brave isn't something you are, Daliah. It's something you practice."
My name in his mouth felt intimate, like a touch.
"Think about it," he said, taking a small step back. "First lesson's free."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Chad remained where he was, just looking at me.
Not at my body in that assessing way I was used to from men, where I could practically see them calculating my dress size and finding me wanting.
No, Chad looked at me like he was memorizing my face, like what he saw there mattered.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, I didn't feel the urge to suck in my stomach or turn to my more flattering angle.