Page 31 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

“You keep looking at me like that, we’re never leaving this room,” she says, but she’s smiling as she slides her feet into flats.

“That’s not the threat you think it is, Red.”

An hour later, we’re finally dressed and wandering Main Street.

The late afternoon sun turns everything golden, tourists drifting between shops with relaxed vacation energy.

Jessica threads her fingers through mine, reaching for me without hesitation.

I don’t say a word and just hold her hand tight.

She stops at every other window, pointing out things—an antique lamp, a painting of mountains, a leather journal that “Sophie would love.” I watch her. The way the light catches in her hair. How she unconsciously leans into me when she laughs.

“You’re not even looking,” she accuses, catching me staring.

“I’m looking at what matters.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush. “Smooth talker.”

“Honest.”

We’re browsing a cluttered boutique when a child’s wail cuts through the peaceful afternoon. A little girl, maybe four, pigtails askew and face panicked, is standing alone near a display of books. Her bottom lip trembles, arms hugging her chest.

“Mama?” she cries, spinning in a slow, panicked circle. “Where’s Mama? ”

There aren’t many people in the store. The clerk looks up, startled, and scans the space with his gaze. I step closer, crouch down a few feet from the girl.

“Hey there, sugar,” I say softly. “You lookin’ for your mama?”

She nods fast with her eyes full of fresh tears.

“I bet she’s still in the store,” I tell her gently. She sniffles, rivulets of tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Mamas don’t leave without their kids,” I reassure her softly.

The girl’s breathing evens out a little. She stops turning.

“What’s your name?”

“Emma.”

“Well, Miss Emma, I’m Finn. When I was little, I got lost in a store once too. My mama found me in two minutes flat. Mamas have a radar for their babies.”

Just then, a woman rushes into view from the back of the shop, toddler in one arm, purse half falling off her shoulder.

“Emma! Baby, there you are.”

The girl runs to her. The mom drops to her knees, clutching both kids tight. She looks up at me, a little breathless.

“Thank you. I was chasing him,” she shifts the squirming toddler, “and turned around, and she was just…gone.”

“She did great,” I say, smiling. “She knew to stay put.”

I stand and turn to find Jessica watching the scene unfold. Her arms are loose at her sides, but there’s something soft in her face. “What?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. That was…really good.”

“My sister’s got twins,” I say with a shrug. “I’ve had some training.”

Jessica’s expression shifts. “For real? ”

“Three-year-old wrecking balls. Brody and Cian. I’m obsessed with ’em.”

She watches the mom strap the boy in the stroller and scoop up the little girl, eyes following them until the door swings shut. An emotion runs over her features—softness, maybe sadness. It’s gone before I can name it.

“You ever think about it?” I ask, keeping it casual. “Kids?”

She hesitates, then turns to me. “Sometimes.”

I nod slowly. “I love kids. Always have. But being a dad?” I rub the back of my neck. “That’s a whole different game. Not sure I’d be any good at it. My dad wasn’t exactly a role model before everything went to hell.”

She studies me silently.

“I mean, I wouldn’t rule it out,” I add quickly, feeling the sudden shift in the air. “Maybe one day. Maybe adoption. But if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I’d get it right.”

Something flickers across her face—pain, maybe panic. Like I just said exactly the wrong thing.

She drops her eyes, voice carefully neutral. “You’re barely thirty. Plenty of time to figure it out.” But her tone sounds final, like a door closing.

She tugs my hand before I can push deeper into dangerous territory. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.” She’s quiet the rest of the way to the next shop, lost in thoughts I can’t read.

The boutique she leads me to is all warm wood and soft lighting, the kind of place that smells like sandalwood and relaxes you the second you step inside. We wander for a bit, then she stops near a small display in the back.

“Look,” she says, pointing. “These are made by a local artist.”

Leather bracelets—simple, hand-braided, silver clasps. Nothing flashy. Clean and masculine .

I glance at the display, then at her. “Doesn’t really look like Sophie’s style. You thinking for Adam?”

She shakes her head, already reaching for one. Brown leather, soft but sturdy.

“This one,” she says, slipping it off the stand.

Before I can react, she takes my wrist and fastens it, quickly tightening the clasp.

“There,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb over the leather, eyes lifting to meet mine. “Now you’re marked, Carolina.”

I stare at her. Wishing I could rewind the moment. Make sure I heard her right.

She’s finally claiming me. After months of running, of keeping walls between us, she’s choosing to mark me as hers.

It hits hard.

I clear my throat. Steady my voice.

“Took you long enough.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush pink.

“Shut up,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling.

And maybe it’s just a bracelet. But it feels like everything.