Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Hilary
The second the door shuts behind Eric, I grab David’s hand.
“Back room. Now.”
I don’t wait for an answer.
I just drag him.
Through the narrow aisle. Past Romance. Past the register where Maribel is pretending very hard not to be listening. Straight into the small office in the back.
The second we’re inside, I turn on him.
“What the hell was that?”
He blinks.
“Excuse me?”
“That,” I snap, pacing once before spinning back toward him. “The caveman routine? The growling? The ‘get your fucking hands off her’—who do you think you are?”
His jaw tightens.
“He had his hands on you.”
“I had it handled.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you step in like that?” I demand.
Because it wasn’t just stepping in.
It was something else.
Something bigger.
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to get a grip on himself.
“I don’t know,” he admits.
That stops me cold.
“You don’t know?” I repeat.
His eyes lock on mine—dark, intense, and way too honest.
“No,” he says. “I saw him touch you and something in me just snapped.”
My pulse jumps.
“That’s not normal, David.”
“I’m aware,” he mutters.
I cross my arms, trying very hard to ignore the fact that he’s standing way too close in a room that suddenly feels way too small.
“You don’t get to do that,” I say. “You don’t get to act like I’m—like I belong to you.”
His head lifts slightly.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” I fire back. “It was all over you.”
The way you stood.
The way you looked at him.
The way you stepped between us like—like I was yours.
Those thoughts make my stomach flip in a way I absolutely do not appreciate.
“I wasn’t trying to lay claim to you,” he says, voice low.
“Yeah? No shit. But exactly what were you doing?”
Silence.
Heavy. Thick. Loaded.
He takes a step closer.
Not aggressive.
Not pushing.
But deliberate.
“I was making sure no one crossed a line you didn’t want crossed.”
My breath catches.
“That’s not your job.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
Another step.
Now we’re close enough that I can feel the heat of him again. That same pull from the kitchen. That same dangerous, electric awareness.
“Then stop acting like it is.”
His gaze drops—just for a second—to my mouth.
Then back up.
“I’m trying,” he says quietly.
That does not make me feel better.
“If this is how you are with women,” I continue, even though my voice has softened without my permission, “I’m not one of your L.A. girls, David. I’m not—”
“I know that.”
The interruption is sharp.
Immediate.
“I’m not yours!”
His expression shifts—something almost frustrated, like I just said the wrong thing.
“You keep saying that,” he adds. “Like I don’t get it.”
“Do you?” I challenge.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping even closer. “I do.”
My back hits the edge of the desk.
I don’t remember moving.
I don’t remember him closing the distance.
But here we are.
“And that’s the problem,” he continues, voice lower now. “Because no matter what I do, you still feel like mine, linda. And me? I don’t act like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you matter,” he says bluntly.
The words hit like a shock to the system.
I suck in a breath.
“That’s—” I shake my head. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth.”
His hand lifts like he’s going to touch me—then he stops.
Midair.
Like he’s fighting himself.
“I’ve known you what—two weeks?” he goes on. “And I’m sitting in my car watching your shop open in the morning like some kind of psycho.”
My eyes widen.
“You’ve been—what?”
“Exactly,” he mutters. “Not normal.”
“No, it’s not,” I agree, my heart now doing something very erratic in my chest.
“But I can’t seem to stop.”
The honesty in his voice strips me bare.
Leaves me with nothing to hide behind.
“You don’t know me,” I say, softer now.
“I know enough.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Then how does it work?” he shoots back.
I don’t have an answer.
Because nothing about this feels like anything I’ve ever known.
Safe is steady.
Predictable.
Like Eric.
And look how that turned out.
This?
This is chaos.
Heat.
Something that could burn me alive if I let it.
“You’re leaving,” I say finally, clinging to the one thing that makes sense. “That rugby song—you’re going to take it. You need to take it. So I know you’re not staying here.”
His jaw tightens.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” I whisper. “That’s your world.”
“And this isn’t?” he counters, gesturing around the room—but his eyes stay on me.
“This is mine,” I correct.
Silence stretches between us.
Thick.
Breathing.
“You scare me a little,” I admit before I can stop myself.
Something in his expression softens.
“Good,” he says quietly.
I blink.
“What?”
“Because you scare me, too.”
And that might be the most dangerous thing he’s said yet.
The air in the back room feels thinner.
Like we’ve burned all the oxygen arguing.
“You scare me too,” he repeats.
And I don’t laugh.
I don’t deflect.
Because I know what he means.
The silence stretches between us, but it isn’t empty. It’s humming. Charged.
He’s still too close.
I’m still backed against the desk.
His hand lifts again.
This time, it doesn’t stop.
His fingers hover near my jaw, barely brushing a strand of hair away from my cheek.
The touch is light.
Careful.
Like I might bolt.
Like I might shatter.
My pulse is pounding everywhere.
“You shouldn’t,” I whisper.
“Shouldn’t what?” he asks, voice rough.
“Look at me like that.”
His thumb grazes just under my ear.
Slow.
Intentional.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already decided something.”
His jaw flexes.
“I haven’t,” he says.
It sounds like a lie.
My breath stutters.
“You’re leaving,” I say again, but it comes out weaker this time.
“I don’t know,” he repeats.
“You do.”
His other hand braces on the desk beside me.
Caging me in without touching.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing when it comes to you,” he admits.
And that confession?
That’s what does it.
Not the closeness.
Not the heat.
The honesty.
The raw confusion.
“I don’t act like this,” he murmurs. “I don’t lose my head. I don’t—” He exhales sharply. “I don’t get territorial over someone I barely know.”
The word territorial sends a ripple through me.
“You were territorial,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“And?”
“And I don’t understand it.”
His forehead nearly brushes mine now.
We’re breathing the same air.
My hands are fisted in the front of his shirt and I don’t remember grabbing it.
“You don’t get to act like I’m yours,” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Then back up.
“I’m not saying you are.”
“But you want to.”
There it is.
The truth.
His chest rises.
Falls.
Slow.
“Yeah,” he says.
No hesitation.
No joke.
Just truth.
“I want to, Sunshine. I really fucking want to.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
This is reckless.
This is fast.
This is exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do.
“You’re going to break my heart,” I say softly.
His expression shifts.
That possessive heat dims—just a fraction—and something vulnerable flickers through.
“I’ll try not to,” he says.
“But you might.”
“Maybe,” he admits.
The honesty wrecks me.
We’re one breath away now.
One inch.
One decision.
“You shouldn’t kiss me,” I whisper.
“Probably not.”
“David—”
He kisses me.
Not tentative.
Not testing.
But not consuming either.
It’s controlled.
Deep.
Like he’s been holding back for days and finally lets himself have just this.
My hands tighten in his shirt.
His hand slides to my waist—warm, firm, steady.
I melt before I can stop myself.
He tastes like coffee and something darker.
He tilts his head, and the kiss deepens just slightly—enough to steal my breath but not enough to overwhelm.
Heat pools low in my stomach.
My knees actually weaken.
He catches me instinctively, pulling me closer.
And that’s when it shifts.
Not into lust.
Into something heavier.
Because this doesn’t feel casual.
It doesn’t feel like a man who kisses women in clubs and forgets their names.
It feels deliberate.
Claiming.
And that realization makes my heart pound harder than anything else.
I pull back first.
Just barely.
Our mouths separate, but our foreheads stay pressed together.
We’re both breathing harder.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you just made a decision that affects both our lives.”
His thumb traces the curve of my hip once before he forces his hand to still.
“I didn’t,” he says.
But his voice is unsteady now.
And we both know something changed.
“You need to figure out what you’re doing,” I tell him softly. “With the rugby thing. With your life.”
“And you?” he asks.
“I’m not a backup plan,” I say.
The words hang between us.
Firm. Clear.
He studies me like he’s memorizing something.
“You’re not,” he agrees.
Then he steps back.
And all I feel is cold.