Page 75 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I want to turn and walk away, but my feet feel rooted in place.

Then Brad glances around again, slow and deliberate.

"I’m recommending my firm pull funding," he says, his tone flat and final. “We’ve had a good run, but it’s time to redirect our charitable giving.”

The edges of the room blur. My fingers go numb.

That donation is fifteen percent of our budget. It covers grants and the mobile library vans.

And just like that, Brad threatens to rip it all away.

All because I left and didn’t come crawling back.

I force a breath. “You’re punishing the kids, not me.”

Brad’s mouth tightens. “That’s not how I see it.”

Then, before I can form a response, he turns and walks out the door like this was just a quick errand he checked off his list.

My hands tremble. My legs feel like stone. I stand there, frozen, trying to absorb what just happened.

The buzz of the room rushes back in. Kids laugh, parents chat, someone near the snack table asks about gluten-free cookies.

I stare at the spot where Brad was just standing. It’s empty now, like he never existed. Like he didn’t just gut my budget in under two minutes.

“Ava?” A hand touches my elbow, light and careful.

Jackson’s expression shifts the second he sees my face. Whatever I’m doing to hold myself together, whatever mask I thought I was still wearing, it’s clearly cracked.

“What did he say?” he asks. His voice is low and controlled, but there’s an undercurrent of barely restrained anger, like a storm waiting to break.

I shake my head quickly. “I’ll tell you later.”

He hesitates, searching my face. But then he nods. Doesn’t press. Just steps in close enough that I can feel the heat of his body beside mine. Like a buffer between me and the rest of the room.

His cologne, musky and familiar, grounds me in the moment. I take a shaky breath.

I press my palms to my thighs and straighten.

“I should check on Jenna,” I say, my voice thin. “And make sure cleanup is covered. I think the raffle drawing starts soon.”

“Ava.”

His voice stops me. I look up.

“You don’t have to pretend like that didn’t just happen.”

Something in my chest clenches.

“Yes, I do,” I whisper. “At least until this is over.”

He doesn’t argue. Just nods again. I turn before I lose the fragile thread holding me together and start toward the donation table, blinking hard to keep the blur from my eyes.

I duck into the break room, where the overhead lights hum and the smell of leftover coffee lingers in the air. Jenna’s already there, sorting through a bin of half-used sticker sheets. Her eyes are narrow the moment she sees me.

“Ava,” she says carefully, straightening. “What's wrong?”

I close the door behind me and lean against it, my hands gripping the handle like it’s the only thing holding me upright.