Page 11

His eyes dart from me to Emma and back. I almost hope he does try. It's been too long since I've had a proper fight that wasn't on the ice, and all this emotional bullshit has me wound tight.

"Whatever," he mutters finally, backing down. "She's not worth the trouble anyway."

Wrong fucking answer.

I take a step forward, but Emma's hand lands on my arm, stopping me cold.

"Logan." Her voice is soft but firm. "Let it go."

The touch of her hand on my forearm burns through my shirt, anchoring me. I force myself to breathe, to step back but I don't dare look away from the asshole.

With a cocky chuckle that makes my teeth grind, he takes the hint and disappears into the crowd like the coward he is.

I turn to face Emma, expecting gratitude or relief. Instead, her expression is unreadable… confused, maybe?

"Are you okay?" I ask.

She nods slowly, then starts packing her samples again. She doesn't look at me when she finally answers.

"I'm fine."

But she's not fine. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders.

"Emma—"

"Thank you." She cuts me off, still not meeting my eyes. "For... handling that."

Something's wrong. This isn't how this was supposed to go. I protected her, like any decent man would do. So why does she look like I'm the problem?

"He was bothering you," I say, confused by her reaction.

"I know." She finally looks up, and there's something in her brown eyes I can't read. "But I could have handled it myself."

The words hit like a slap. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Emma sighs, setting down the tray. "It means I'm not helpless, Logan. I deal with difficult people all the time."

"I never said you were helpless."

"No, but you acted like it." She crosses her arms, and suddenly we're having a fight I don't understand. "You just... jumped in. Like I couldn't handle myself."

My head is spinning. "Would you have preferred I let him keep harassing you?"

"I would have preferred you gave me a chance to handle it first." Her voice rises slightly, then she catches herself, glancing around at nearby booths.

We're making a scene. Perfect.

"Can we not do this here?" I ask.

Emma looks around, then starts packing faster. "You're right. Help me carry this stuff to my car?"

It's not really a question. She hands me a box of supplies before I can answer, then hefts another herself.

We walk to her car in silence, the weight of unspoken words heavy between us. I load her supplies into the trunk while she arranges things with unnecessary precision.

"Emma," I start when everything's packed.

"It's fine, Logan." She slams the trunk shut. "Really. I just... I need to get home."

She moves toward the driver's side, but I step into her path.

"No. This isn't fine. You're pissed at me for helping you."

Emma stops, looking up at me with those eyes that see too much. "I'm not mad that you helped. I'm frustrated that you always feel like you have to."

"What the hell does that mean?"

She runs her hands through her hair, and I catch a whiff of vanilla and coffee that makes my chest tight.

"It means sometimes you make me feel like a fucking damsel in distress." The curse sounds strange in her soft voice. "Like I'm this fragile thing that needs protecting. And I'm not."

I stare at her, trying to process. "I don't think you're fragile."

"Don't you?" She challenges. "Every time something happens, you're right there. Catching me when I stumble, stepping in when someone bothers me, fixing things before I even ask."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing!" She throws her hands up. "And everything. Because I like it, Logan. I like that you show up. I like that you care. But I also need to know that you see me as capable of handling my own shit."

The frustration in her voice hits me like a check to the boards. This isn't about me protecting her from that asshole.

This is about us.

About whatever the hell has been building between us for weeks.

"I do see you as capable," I say quietly.

"Then trust me to be capable." She looks up at me, and there's something vulnerable in her expression. "Trust me to tell you if I need help."

I want to argue. Want to tell her that every instinct I have demands I protect what's mine. But then I realize what I just thought.

What's mine.

When did that happen? When did Emma become something I think of as mine to protect?

The answer is simple and terrifying: somewhere between the first time she smiled at me and now.

"Okay," I say finally.

She blinks in surprise. "Okay?"

"Yeah. I'll... try. If that's what you want, I'll try my best to do that for you."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "Thank you."

We stand there for a moment, the afternoon air thick between us. I should step back, let her go home, give us both space to figure out whatever this is.

Instead, I hear myself saying, "You want to get dinner?"

The words surprise us both.

Emma's eyes widen. "Like... together?"

"Unless you prefer eating alone."

She studies my face like she's trying to read something written there in a language she doesn't quite know.

"Is this your way of asking me out on a date?" she asks, a hint of humor glistening in her eyes.

My heart pounds against my ribs. The smart answer is no. That's the safe answer. The answer that doesn't complicate everything.

"Do you want it to be a date?"

She considers this, teeth catching her bottom lip in a way that makes me want to lean forward and do the same fucking thing.

"I... yes," she says finally. "I think I do."

I can't help the way my chest puffs out with pride at hearing those words.

"Ridgeview Tavern?" I suggest. "Eli makes a decent burger."

Emma nods. "I'll meet you there?"

"I'll drive you."

She opens her mouth, probably to argue that she can drive herself, then seems to remember our conversation. "Okay."

I walk her around to the passenger side and open the door. As she slides past me, her hand brushes my arm, and that same electricity from the ring toss shoots through me.

This is dangerous. This thing between us is getting out of control, and I'm letting it happen.

But as I close the door and walk around to the driver's side, I realize something:

For the first time in years, dangerous doesn't feel like something to run from.

It feels like something worth fighting for.