Page 10 of Howl Lotta Love

“I don’t flinch.”

“Everyone flinches at juggling nephews.”

“I’ve been shot at by men with better aim than most jugglers.” He said it so evenly she almost missed the joke, and when she laughed—short, surprised, totally against her will—his shoulders came down half an inch, visibly relieved he could still pull that off.

The street outside was doing its usual afternoon business—cabs, delivery trucks, a woman walking four dogs who all disagreed about the destination. Emma stepped off the curb, phone half out of her bag, preparing to draft the argument she planned to have with Gerri about consent⁠—

Jace’s hand closed around her arm and yanked her backward half a second before a delivery van clipped the space she’d occupied a heartbeat earlier. Engine roaring. No horn. No brakes. Gone around the corner before her brain caught up to what had almost happened.

She hit his chest hard enough to knock the air out of both of them. His arms locked around her on reflex—one hand flat between her shoulder blades, the other at her waist, holding her against him like he had zero intention of doing the math on when to let go. Her heart slammed. Adrenaline tangled with a heat that had no business showing up right now.

A cabbie leaned on his horn at the empty air where the van had been. Somewhere behind them, the woman with the four dogs was informing anyone in earshot that this city had gone absolutely feral, which, given the circumstances, was a fair assessment.

“You’re okay.” No question mark anywhere near it. His voice had dropped low and rough, close enough to her ear that it hit her chest before her ears caught it. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“That van—” Steadier than she expected, given her hands were fisted in his shirt and shaking. “That van tried to hit me.”

“That van aimed for you.” His jaw ticked, eyes locked on the corner where it had vanished, arms not loosening an inch. “No hesitation. Not an accident, and not subtle. Which means whoever’s running this doesn’t care if it looks clean anymore.”

Neither of them moved for one long second, the moment stretching well past what the near-miss required. Long enough for Emma to register exactly how solid he was, how her hands had fisted in his shirt without consulting her, how the panic in her chest had started rearranging itself into a different kind of urgency entirely, one the van hadn’t caused.

He noticed the same second she did. His hand flexed once against her back before he stepped back—a foot of very professional distance, a tactical retreat off ground he badly wanted to hold—then closed half of it right back up, fingers finding her elbow again like his hand hadn’t gotten the memo.

“I’m calling this in.” Clipped. Businesslike. He didn’t seem to notice his hand was back. “You’re not walking anywhere alone until we know who’s behind that wheel.”

His earpiece crackled—Roman, tinny and sharp, firing off questions before Jace pressed two fingers to his ear. “Traffic cam on Fifth. North end.” He rattled off the order without looking away from her face once, running a full-scale investigation and a full-scale worry at exactly the same volume.

Emma opened her mouth to argue on principle, discovered she didn’t have one handy, and settled for glaring instead. It didn’t land the way she wanted. Not with her pulse still going and his hand still hovering an inch from her elbow, apparently undecided about whether to stop touching her.

“Fine.” A concession, and they both knew it. “Temporary. Under protest.”

“Duly noted.”

Her phone buzzed, back in her office, door locked, Jace posted in the hallway like an extremely expensive, extremely irritated piece of furniture. Unknown number. No name. No photo. Only a handful of lines that turned her stomach to ice.

Congratulations, Ms. Burke. It would be a shame if your new security detail couldn’t protect you.

She read it twice, made sure her hand wasn’t shaking, and opened the door to show Jace exactly why she’d revised her opinion of the furniture comment.

FOUR

JACE

Jace got Emma through the lobby, into the elevator, and up to the executive floor without losing the argument they’d been having since the sidewalk, which he counted as a personal best.

“You’re moving into a secure property tonight.” He shouldered his office door open and didn’t wait to see if she’d follow—she would, she was still mid-sentence. “I’ve got two available. Pick one, or I’ll pick for you.”

“I have an apartment.”

“You have an apartment with a lock a determined toddler could beat.”

“It has a deadbolt.”

“So did your office.” He rounded the desk instead of sitting behind it, which put him a lot closer to her than furniture etiquette strictly allowed, and watched her clock the move and refuse to step back. Her shoulders squared instead. He counted that as a win.

“I have plants. Living things that require my presence.”

“I’ll send someone to water your plants.”