“Damn thing keeps crashing.” He pulls out a chair for me and I sit next to him, acutely aware of how close we are.
“Let me take a look.”
He studies my face as I talk, not the laptop. It makes it harder than it should be to focus, but I push through it. Once I’ve identified the issue, I make the fix and when I look up, he’s staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re full of surprises.” His voice has gone quieter.
“You should hire me,” I say lightly, even though my face is warming again. “I’m looking for a job, now I’ve been scared off modeling forever.”
“I’m starting to think I should.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, but his eyes stay on mine, steady and intent in a way that makes it hard to look away.
“My phone’s gone,” I say, softer now. “I need to let my brother know I’m okay… I can do it safely.”
The shift in tone is immediate. “They may have access to your phone. Walk me through what you’re suggesting.”
I talk him through setting up a temporary email, how I’ll avoid tying it to anything traceable. He listens carefully, in the same way he did while I fixed the laptop, as if every detail matters.
When I finish, he nods once. “Show me the message before you send it.”
I type carefully and show him.
“Add something personal,” he says. “Something only your brother would know and ask for a reply. So we know it’s really him.”
I think for a second, then add a line.
Striker holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then gestures toward the screen. “Send it.”
I do.
Closing everything down takes less than a minute, but the relief that follows hits me hard. I let out a breath.
Striker notices immediately.
“Come here,” he says, softer this time.
I move without thinking. He pulls me gently between his knees, one arm settling around my waist, not pulling me in so much as holding me there. It’s a simple thing, almost casual, but the warmth of him seeps through the thin cotton of his shirt and into my skin.
“You did good,” he says.
My fingers drift into his hair before I can stop them, brushing the damp strands at the back of his neck.
His hand tightens slightly on my hip. I swallow a couple of times, angling my body closer to his.
“Bethany,” he growls, low, almost a warning.
“Sorry,” I murmur, even though I don’t move my hand.
We stay locked in place, both of us breathing hard. Then the phone rings and the moment breaks.
I laugh, the sound spilling out of me before I can stop it. Striker exhales like he’s just been given a reprieve.
After he makes lunch, he brings around an old truck from behind his building. He drives one-handed, easy and controlled. I try not to stare at his heavily inked forearm as it flexes and fail completely.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he says without taking his eyes off the road, “I’m going to start thinking it’s intentional.”
