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Fury burns in my gut. “Did he⁠—”

“No, no. Not like that. More with words. Very rarely did he have a kind tone. My mom said it was because he was still carrying anger over his childhood. She was always making excuses for him. And then when he left, she fell apart.”

“I’m sorry, Dahlia.”

She shrugs. “I may not have had a dad, but I’ve always had the Father, and for that I am so incredibly blessed.” Her smile is blinding in the early morning sun. The light breeze lifts strands of her dark hair, and I flex the fingers of my left hand, itching to reach out and brush it behind her ear.

What is happening to me? It’s been all of twenty-four hours, and this woman has already monopolized my every rational thought.

“We should get going.” I turn to start toward the stairs again.

“Yeah, of course.”

As we walk in silence back toward the truck, I go over all of the reasons these budding feelings are a bad idea.

She’s a client.

She doesn’t live here in town.

She’s—dangerous to a man like me.

It’s the latter one that really sticks with me. I’ve made mistakes I can never take back. What I can do, though, is ensure I never make the same ones twice.

Chapter 11

Dahlia

All of Ryker’s earlier playfulness is gone. He’s in full protector mode as we make our way up the steps and toward my apartment, his head practically on a swivel, scanning everything and everyone we’ve passed. So far, it’s been a relatively uneventful trip. Here’s hoping it stays that way.

The drive was easy, the traffic light, and as soon as we started turning down familiar roads, I couldn’t help but notice the ease that settled over me. Not because of where we were headed but because it was no longer an unknown.

We pause just outside my apartment door, and Ryker reaches into his pocket to withdraw a black leather pouch before kneeling and going to work picking the lock. Something he assured me he could do after I realized I’d lost my keys in the accident.

After only a few seconds, Ryker stands and puts his kit back into his pocket. “Good to go.” He flashes me a grin that would have knocked me off kilter if it weren’t for the sheer shock that he just picked my lock in under a minute.

I stare at it a moment, then look up at him, unsure if I should be impressed or shocked. “That is not at all comforting.”

He shrugs. “I always tell my clients to get kid safety latches they can use whenever they’re inside. Because a lock really doesn’t do what people think it does. Not when it’s up against someone who knows what they’re doing.” He reaches for the handle, then glances back at me. “I’m going to go in and clear it first, okay? You can follow me in, but stay behind me, no matter what you see, okay?” Reaching behind him, he withdraws a handgun and holds it down in front of him.

I swallow hard. There’s something I hadn’t thought about. “Do you really think someone is in there?”

“I don’t like to take chances.” Slowly, he turns the knob, then cracks the door and aims his gun in first. He keeps it in front of him as he moves into my apartment, and I follow behind him, locking the door once we’re both inside.

Then, remembering what he said about a lock, I slide the weighted frog doorstop my grandmother made for my mom in front of it. It won’t do much, but maybe it’ll slow someone down.

With a deep breath, I turn.

My apartment looks relatively the same as I remember it. My fish tank is still on the little table in the corner of my living room, with my betta fish still swimming around happily. Relief floods me. I know that the travel feeder I bought works great, but there was still that lingering fear I lost him, too.

The couch is the same, though the crocheted blanket on the back is new. Judging by the yarn sitting in my crochet bag beside me, I must have made it sometime in the last couple of weeks.

A half-empty mug is sitting on the coffee table with a book I don’t remember reading propped open and face down beside it.

My bed in the far corner is made neatly, my laundry basket half-full. As Ryker comes out of the bathroom, I move into the little kitchen area off my living room. My sticky note system is fully in place, and I smile at my handwriting as I read the little notes I left for myself.

Drink more water, Dahl. You’re not a naked mole rat.

I snort. That one, I remember writing.