Chapter 15
The market feels different now. Not safer—I’m not stupid—but I somehow feel safer with this giant man beside me. I walk with him, my tote bag hooked over my arm, pretending my pulse isn’t skidding from the alley. Or maybe it has nothing to do with the alleyway anymore…
Jagger keeps his distance, walking with me but not too close. When people bump into us, he angles himself subtly between them and me; a barrier I didn’t ask for. But I’m not exactly rejecting it, either.
He is different from what I expected him to be.
Quieter, maybe. Less sharp around the edges.
Although he’s still alert, his blue eyes never stop scanning over the crowd of people surrounding us.
Yet, somehow, it’s like the chaos and noise stand him down instead of winding him tighter.
He still takes up space aggressively, but at his size, it’s probably difficult not to.
I try not to stare at him, but I fail miserably.
The sunlight in his hair accentuates the natural blond highlights, making it appear lighter than it looked in the hospital.
His sleeves are pushed up, and those muscular, tattooed forearms of his are very distracting.
Catching me looking up at him, he beams a broad, knowing smile down at me.
Focus, Blake.
“You always this quiet?” I ask, mostly because the silence is starting to feel too intimate.
He glances at me, one corner of his lips lifting. “Only when I’m behaving.”
I scoff playfully. “That’s comforting.”
When we stop at a bread stall overflowing with loaves dusted in flour and seeds, I cock an eyebrow at him. “Do you always interrupt potential kidnappings? Or am I a special case?”
He puts down a loaf of bread and glances at me with a—far too adorable—half-smile.
“Special case,” he answers flatly. “Do you attempt to get kidnapped often?”
“I try to pencil it in on Tuesdays,” I deadpan. “I find it’s good for character development.”
“That’s a bold strategy, Doc,” he teases. “I might not be available next Tuesday.”
“I’ll be sure to coordinate with you going forward.”
We pass a stall draped in turquoise, saffron, and deep wine-red scarves, the fabric fluttering gently in the soft breeze.
The vendor’s eyes flick between us, lingering with mild amusement.
We look like a fairy and their friendly giant.
He smiles at the two of us, and I realize that he thinks we’re a pair.
Together. It’s ridiculous. I’ve known Jagger for less than a couple of hours.
Yet, walking beside him feels so comfortable in a way I didn’t see coming.
The air is sharp and clean, with oranges and lemons permeating the air, when we stop at a little fruit stall. I pick up a grapefruit, turning it over, inspecting the skin for soft spots.
“You are very serious about your produce, Doc.”
“I’m a doctor,” I reply. “I take most things seriously. I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
He steps close and bends down until his face is inches from my ear, like he’s telling me one of life’s big secrets, before whispering, “You do know that fruit is notoriously untrustworthy, right?”
When I glance over my shoulder, my face is mere inches from his. “You’ve been hurt by a pineapple, haven’t you?”
“I don’t really like to talk about it.” He nods solemnly. “But… avocados.”
A loud and unfettered laugh surprises me, billowing from my lungs before I can stop it. It’s so relaxed, it barely sounds like my own. Jagger stares down at me with a smile tugging at his lips. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The part that you keep tucked away.” Heat creeps up my neck and over my cheeks as I drop my gaze out of embarrassment. With his finger beneath my chin, he lightly eases my face up. His soft eyes bore through me as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “It looks good on you.”
Fuck… he is as charming as he thinks he is.
We move on, and I find myself walking closer to him, our arms occasionally dusting against each other. I point out which vendors I trust, which ones overcharge, and the ones who slip a little extra into your bag if they like you.
“Hmmm,” he muses. “Do you think they like me?”
I look him over, deliberately, and cock my head a little to the side. “Undecided.”
Grinning arrogantly, knowing I am no longer talking about the vendors, he shares, “I’m pretty sure I could win them over.”
Yeah… so am I.
At some point, I realize he is carrying my bags. He took them when my hands were full and never gave them back. “You don’t have to do that,” I insist, reaching for them.
“I know, but I want to,” he replies easily, pulling them into him.
I don’t argue, letting him keep them as he steps into a tiny coffee shop, with a sign that boasts Authentic Local Roast, wedged between a leather goods stand and a brightly colored knock-off sunglasses stand. “I’m getting us coffee. Don’t argue.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I lie, but against my better judgment, I’m going to let him treat.
He arches a brow, as if he knows exactly what I am thinking. “You were thinking about it.” He orders two without asking what I want. When he hands me the chipped ceramic cup, our fingers brush, and I can’t deny the excited tingle it sends running up my arm and down my spine.
I take a careful sip and immediately regret everything. Oh… Oh no. I grimace at the taste, struggling to ingest the—so-called—coffee. “That’s… just… Wow.”
Taking a sip of his own before realizing what I said, he winces as he gulps it down in a single swallow. “Yeah. That is aggressively bad.”
I laugh. “It tastes like someone whispered ‘coffee’ to hot water.”
“And yet”—he beams, lifting his cup in a mock-toast—“I finally got my coffee date.”
I glare at him and blurt, “This is not a date.”
“Sure it is.” His mouth quirks as he pretends to think about it before playfully arguing, “We’re walking through a market together. We just had coffee. There is definitely flirting happening. And I’m carrying your bags.”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
He plucks the bags from the seat beside me before I can grab them. “Too late.”
Shaking my head, I mutter, “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told… on several occasions.”
Opting not to finish either of our coffees, Jagger leaves a generous tip. The market thins when we reach the edge, the crowd waning and the loud noise softening. The sun falls lower in the sky, slowly painting everything in a soft shade of amber.
“You aren’t…” The words slip out before I can stop them. I pause to swallow and find the courage to continue my thought. “You’re different from what I thought you’d be.”
“Different how?” he asks curiously.
“I don’t know.” I shrug before gesturing at him vaguely. “I guess I expected more… intensity. Definitely less joking.”
He chuckles softly. “Yes, well, we adrenaline junkies don’t run around constantly waving guns, screaming Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker all the time. It’s far too exhausting.”
A giggle bursts out of me so loudly that I slap my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God. Did you really just—”
“Disappointing. I know.”
“No,” I mumble, meaning to say something else entirely. “It’s… nice.”
We walk a few more steps in comfortable silence before he asks, “Do you need a ride home?”
“I don’t usually… I can take the shuttle. It should be here shortly.”
“No pressure,” he adds. “I promise I’m not a serial killer.”
“That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”
“Fair,” he concedes. “But statistically—”
“Statistically, it’s highly unlikely that both of us would be serial killers,” I cut him off.
“Touché.” He laughs before his tone becomes more sincere. “I figured I’d offer. I’d feel better knowing you got home safely.”
I weigh up my options, logic versus instinct. The truth is, I don’t want this to end just yet. “I guess,” I sigh before emphasizing, “because it’ll make you feel better.”
He leads me to a Jeep that has definitely seen better days.
The drive is quiet. Not awkward, just quiet, less my occasional directions to guide him back to my place.
The city glides past the windows, and he doesn’t fight the silence that has fallen between us.
By the time we reach my building, and he slows to a stop, dusk is settling across the sky in deep blues and purples.
A true gentleman, he opens my car door and carries my bags, escorting me all the way to my apartment.
Standing at the door with my keys in my hand, all I can hear is Zahra: Be careful.
Trouble is good in bed. When I turn to face him, my heart hammers against my rib cage, and I look up at him, a different thought runs through my mind. What if I don’t want to be careful?
Struggling to hold his heated gaze, I swallow hard before asking, “Do you want to come in?”