Page 11 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

“Ava, that’s not on you.”

“I know,” I murmur. “But it still feels like I let it happen. Like I saw the cracks and pretended they weren’t there.”

She reaches out, resting a hand over mine. “You trusted him. That’s not a flaw. That’s what love is supposed to be.”

“I feel stupid,” I whisper.

“You’re not. You’re human. And honestly? He never deserved you.”

Jenna’s gaze shifts to the coffee mug on the bedside table. “Jackson’s taking care of you?”

I nod again. “Yeah. He is.”

She watches me for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles slyly.

“So. Jackson Hart. The same guy you crushed on in high school. And now you’re living out some kind of post-wedding runaway romance in his mansion?”

I groan. “Please don’t make this weirder than it already is.”

“I’m just saying,” she sing-songs. “If a rich, sexy Pittsburgh SteelClaws player offered me coffee and a guest room, I might not be in such a hurry to leave.”

I throw a pillow at her. Jenna yelps and ducks, the pillow bouncing off the foot of the bed.

"Rude," she mutters, but she’s grinning as she flops onto the bed beside me again, picking up the pillow like she might toss it back. “You know I’m right.”

I groan and cover my face with my hands. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re glowing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Look, I know things suck right now. But maybe this whole runaway bride thing isn’t the worst twist your life could take.”

I roll my eyes, but deep down my stomach flutters at the thought, which is ridiculous.

Jenna stays for another half hour, long enough to make sure I’ve eaten half a granola bar and to lecture me lovingly about hydrating like a functioning adult. But eventually, she stands, brushing her hands on her leggings.

“I need to get going. I’ve got to hop on a video call with the outreach team,” she says, glancing at her phone. “They’re panicking over the school grant deadline again.”

I shift on the bed. “Maybe I should log on too. Just for a bit. Answer some emails, check in with everyone…”

She gives me a pointed look. “Absolutely not. You’re on vacation.”

“Yes, for a honeymoon that’s not happening because my wedding exploded into flames,” I murmur.

“Which means you probably need the break even more now,” she counters. “Take the space. Breathe. We’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, biting the inside of my cheek. “I hate leaving everything on your plate.”

“Ava, I know you are the founder of Open Pages but remember I’m the Director of Programs for your nonprofit. And you hired me for a reason. I can handle a few extra emails and a bunch ofover-caffeinated interns. Just focus on… I don’t know, wearing cozy oversized shirts and not answering texts from your terrible ex.”

A reluctant laugh escapes me. “Wow. So inspiring.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she says with a wink.

“And,” she says more softly, leaning in closer, “I’m glad you are here with Jackson. If you had to land anywhere… this doesn’t seem like the worst place.”

After a beat, she continues, “He’s always looked out for you, Ava. Even back then.”