Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
CAMERON
Gregg stands rigid in front of me, fists still clenched at his sides like he hasn’t quite decided whether or not the fight was over.
His chest rises and falls with sharp breaths that cut through the surrounding noise.
For a split second, I just stare at him, this man who has stepped so decisively, and violently, into my mess. To defend me.
I grab for his arm, my fingers brushing warm skin through his jacket, grounding and electric all at once. I hate how much I feel in this moment, the anger curls hot in my stomach, fear still buzzes under my skin, and beneath it all, a rush of gratitude. No one has ever defended me like that.
“Come on,” I declare, my voice low and urgent. “We can’t do this here.”
I tug him along toward the Bay Trail, my pulse still racing as we cut through a few pockets of gawking tourists and startled street performers who pretend not to stare while absolutely staring.
Someone laughs nervously behind us, and a busker continues their song.
I keep my head down, heat flooding my face, dragging Gregg forward like if we didn’t keep moving the moment might explode all over again.
By the time we reach the stretch near the municipal pier, the crowd thins. The air is cooler here, salty and straight from the ocean. The sharp bark of sea lions echoes faintly across the water, and the space gives us room to breathe, or maybe fall apart. Honestly? To be determined.
I stop abruptly and spin to face him. “What the actual fuck was that, Gregg?” My voice cracks despite my effort to keep it steady. My heart still slams against my ribs. “You punched my coworker! In the middle of Fisherman’s Wharf!”
Saying it out loud makes it sound unreal. Absurd and catastrophic.
He doesn’t flinch.
“He deserved worse for the way he spoke to you,” Gregg mutters, still simmering. His voice is low, but there is something feral underneath it that makes my stomach flip.
I open my mouth to argue, or explain, to smooth it over, but he keeps going.
“I couldn’t stand there,” he says, jaw tight with his eyes locked on mine now. “Not while he reduced you like that. Like you’re something he gets to claim. Like a trophy.”
That does it.
My chest gives way, not cleanly, and not gently.
I swallow hard, heat stinging behind my eyes.
I hate that Marc’s words had landed exactly where Gregg had named them.
I hate that Gregg had seen it so clearly.
And I absolutely hate how part of me wants to lean into the safety of his anger. It terrifies me.
I shake my head, pacing a few steps before stopping and bracing my hands on my hips. “I didn’t ask you to fight my battles. I’ve dealt with Marc before and I know what he’s like.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” Gregg steps closer, his voice softer now, but the steel is still there, unmistakable in his eyes. He’s protective and unyielding. “Not alone. And not with someone like him,” he continues. “I couldn’t just… watch.”
And that’s the problem. His anger falters and is replaced by something heavier that settles into me, and I don’t know where to put it.
It’s gratitude, guilt, fear, it all collides at once.
I drag a hand over my face, trying to scrub away the sudden burn behind my eyes, then let it fall with a long, tired breath.
“You don’t get it, though,” I say quietly. “This isn’t just about a fight, Gregg.”
I look at him then, and I see the faint swelling along his knuckles, redness already blooming beneath the skin.
“Marc and I…” My voice falters, the past presses in. “We still have to work together. He’s not going away.”
I gesture vaguely toward Gregg’s hand, my stomach flipping as I do. “And now…” I add, the words heavy with dread, remembering his comment about the liquor counts days earlier, “now you’ve given him ammunition.”
Because Marc doesn’t need much. He just needs a reason.
Gregg stares at me, his jaw still tight, then lets out a slow and measured breath. When he speaks, his voice drops.
“Maybe I overreacted,” he admits. “But when I heard him call you that, when I saw the way he looked at you, something in me just snapped. I couldn’t stand for it, and I won’t let anyone treat you like that.”
For a moment, the air between us feels heavy and still. Then I step closer, lowering my voice. “I know you mean that, and thank you,” I affirm.
I watch the tension finally drain from his shoulders, and he reaches for my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine, squeezing gently.
“Alright,” he sighs, “next time, I’ll keep my fists to myself. But please don’t ask me to stand by if he comes after you again. Because I won’t.”
I hold his gaze, seeing the fire there, the loyalty and the danger of caring this much and this fast. I step closer, rise onto my toes, and kiss him without hesitation. I cradle his face, my thumb brushing the line of his jaw where the tension releases.
When I pull back just enough to breathe, my voice drops to a whisper, warm against the cool evening air. “Merci,” I murmur. “Thank you for standing up for me.”
The fog starts to creep in from the Pacific and across the bay, slow and deliberate.
With the edges of the pier beginning to blur, the lamplight soft and dreamlike, we decide to head back toward the hotel.
A few steps ahead, beneath one of the lamps, a man sits perched on a stool with an acoustic guitar resting against his thigh.
His voice is rough around the edges but warm, and as he sings “Die with a Smile,” the melody drifts out over the water, salt and sound braiding together.
A few people linger around him, quiet and admiring, as if no one wants to break the spell.
Gregg slows without saying a word, his fingers tightening around mine. Then he stops completely and tugs me gently back toward him with a sway. “Dance with me,” he says with longing.
“Here?” I gasp as I glance around. “On a pier?”
“Why not?” Gregg’s eyes catch the low light, bright and playful. He tilts his head toward the musician down the way, his fingers working the familiar melody. “He’s already providing the soundtrack.”
I don’t argue. I never want to argue with him, especially when he looks at me like that. “Okay,” I agree, laughing under my breath.
We move together without deciding to, slow and unhurriedly, without permission.
The music drifts over the water, soft and a little melancholy, and I rest my head against his shoulder.
His jacket smells like cedar and salt, like warmth and safety.
My hand fits easily into his, warm and steady, like I have found a new belonging.
Gregg’s arm tightens around me, grounding me there, and he leans in until our foreheads touch. The closeness makes my breath hitch, and I don’t bother hiding it.
“Teach me something in French,” he whispers.
A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “Like what?” I ask. “But shouldn’t someone of your background have learned?” I tease. He responds by pulling me closer and pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“Something sweet,” he says with a quick laugh. He seems so sure, as if he already knows I would say yes.
I hum softly and pretend to think, even though the words are already there. My eyes softened as I speak slowly and carefully, guiding him through each sound.
“Tu comptes pour moi,” I finally say. “It means… you matter to me.”
“Tu… tu comptes… pour moi,” Gregg repeats. The words are pretty heavy on his tongue, but he carries them like they are fragile.
I laugh softly, I can’t help it, correcting him gently, my voice is threaded with vulnerability. Then I let the words hang between us, as if saying them once isn’t enough. My hand lifts to his cheek, memorizing the feel of him in this moment.
“Perfect,” I whisper, and it wasn’t just the pronunciation I meant.
Gregg turns into my hand and kisses it, then closes his eyes and pulls me closer.
He takes a deep breath and holds me like he is afraid the tide may carry me away if he loosens his grip.
I press into him, listening to his steady heartbeat.
For an impossible second, I think he might never let go. And maybe neither will I.