“Like hell! You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
Ridge murmurs something so softly I can’t hear what it is. “And that’s a promise,” he finishes off by saying.
The shifter’s nostrils flare. His eyes drop from Ridge’s to the floor, then away, then back.
The shifter steps back.
“Apologize,” Ridge says.
“What?”
“To the lady. Apologize. Now!”
The shifter’s lip curls. He looks past Ridge, straight at me.
“Didn’t mean to upset you,” he mutters.
“Try that again,” Ridge says.
“I’m sorry.” Through his teeth.
“Better. Now go. Put your basket down. Leave this store. If I see you causing shit again, I will end you. Is that clear?”
The shifter stands there for one more breath, then nods, lowering his basket onto the ground. He turns and walks out of the store without another word.
The cashier is staring at us with her mouth slightly open.
Ridge turns back to me, and I realize I haven’t breathed in a while.
“Are you okay, Robyn?” he asks.
He called me Robyn.
“I’m fine.”
“Thank you.” The cashier clutches her chest for a second. “That could have turned nasty.”
The female in front of me pays and leaves.
Ridge pushes the cart forward. The cashier starts scanning, and I pay. Then he picks up the bags before I can reach for them.
We walk out together.
Ridge’s gaze still sweeps every line of sight as we go.
I’m glad for it.
I hate that I’m glad, but I am.
He loads the bags into the back of my car, then closes the hatch.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he says.
“Okay.” I nod. He steps back, and I get into my car and start it up.
I pull out of the parking spot. In my rearview, his Range Rover pulls out right behind me. Big and black and steady in my mirror. He stays a careful two-car lengths behind the whole way, at every light, every turn.
My hands on the wheel are a little warmer than they should be. My breath is a beat too quick. But underneath that, underthe weird, thrumming hum of adrenaline, I feel something else. I keep looking in the rearview and seeing his headlights there, and my shoulders drop a fraction each time I do.
