Page 44 of Protecting Peyton

After I fled the city, I learned her body had been found in the woods. The police speculated she’d ventured into the wrong part of town to buy drugs. I knew that was misdirection by the Strangler. Olivia didn’t do drugs. She didn’t even drink anything stronger than wine.

Beyond that initial report, there was no news of the once-vibrant friendI’d known, and my no-friends, no-attachments, no-men rule was born. I couldn’t bear the thought of another person dying because of me.

March smiled. “For now, I’m holding out for the kiss.”

His words brought me back to the present. “Read my lips.” I exaggerated the words. “No men.”

“I dare you to tell me you don’t view my persistence as a positive trait.”

That brought back memories of his tattoos. Yes, March was a man with a strong sense of right and wrong.

“I’m always in favor of doing the right thing,” he added.

Rules, Peyton. Remember the rules.“You have to think of another way I can repay you.”

“I can’t think of anything right now.” He shrugged. “I guess you’re just going to have to go through life remembering that you owe me.”

I groaned. “Think harder.”

Studying him as he drove, I decided I’d gotten extremely lucky to have March with me the last two nights. He was just like Serena and Duke had claimed, a good and honorable man—one I owed my life to.

If only we’d met two years ago.

“This is it.”He pulled into the driveway of a quaint little duplex in Santa Monica.

After getting out of the car, I pointed at the motorcycle parked in front of the garage. “You ride that?”

“When I get the chance. Want a ride?”

“No way.” After a friend in high school had fallen off one, they scared the crap out of me.

He shrugged and then opened the door to the house. This time, he motioned for me to enter first. “I’m renting from the lady next door.”

Inside, it was more tidy than I would have imagined, but otherwise it was clear that a man lived here. Front and center, opposite the black leather couch, was the bachelor-standard monster TV mounted on the wall. The other furnishings were simple black leather and oak. No throw pillows, nothing frilly or fancy for this man.

He followed me in and dropped the bags near the door.

The kitchen was more modern than the house, with a granite island and countertops surrounding very nice stainless steel appliances and a large six-burner cooktop.

He came up behind me.

I froze, feeling his body heat, and afraid I’d made a mistake in agreeing to be in his vicinity. I’d survived just fine with him nearby at work, but there, we were never this close—separated by feet, not inches.

When he moved back, I could take a breath and went over to check out the fridge’s contents.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You have a lot of…options.” It wasn’t stuffed by any means, but surprisingly for a bachelor, it contained real food, including vegetables, rather than the standard twelve-pack of beer I’d imagined.

“You expected a guy who can’t cook proper food and lives on frozen pizza and microwave dinners?”

I was sort of guilty of that. “No. I just don’t want you to go to any trouble. I have simple tastes. How about we order pizza? It’ll be easier.” He was already taking me in, and it seemed like an imposition to cook a meal from scratch.

He opened a drawer and passed me a takeout menu from a pizza joint.

“Pepperoni, and we each choose two additional toppings,” he said.

I wanted mushrooms and onions.