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“Because he was acting unprofessionally, and I didn’t like it. The guy hit you with a camera.”
“On accident.” I did not know why I was defending Garrett Parker, douche photographer.
Lear stepped back, his expression skeptical. “He was saying inappropriate stuff, and I let him know I didn’t like it.”
My hackles went up. “I don’t need you to fight any battles for me.”
“I worked in professional sports. It’s not like I don’t know whatsexual harassment looks like. I wasn’t fighting a battle for you. I told that guy I didn’t appreciate him being a dick.”
I reached for my jacket, flustered at the feelings of anger and the tinges of something softer rising in me. I didn’t like the softer. It felt too close to caring that he’d stood up for me. “I deal with ten guys just like him every week. I can handle things myself when they need handling.”
“Well, I didn’t like it. I don’t think that makes me a bad guy. Are you seriously mad I told him to get his act together?”
No. Yes.I glanced at the door we’d just crashed through. I took a measured breath. “I’m not mad. I just don’t want you thinking you have to protect me or whatever.” I motioned between us. Him protecting me, or feeling like I needed protecting, was changing the rules. “That’s not what this is.”
“Noted,” he said, features tight. “Let me add it to your list of guidelines.”
“What does that mean?”
He stepped past me, opening the door into the main loft space. “No kissing after sex, no planning, no actual conversation. No telling guys who ignore your instructions and injure you they are in the wrong. Anything else?”
I huffed, ignoring the way he seemed to see everything I was tormented over. “I think we’re done here.”
“Yeah,” he said, stepping into the hall. “Clearly.”
Chapter 24
Lear
I WIPED MYhands on a dish towel after packing leftovers into the fridge. The small kitchen always made me think of my aunt’s waffles on Saturday mornings. She gave us whipped cream and chocolate chips, stuff my mom never let me have, and said dessert should never be optional. I folded the dish towel how she used to, something I’d watched her do a thousand times in that kitchen, and glanced over my shoulder. Uncle Harold was snoring softly in his easy chair, the evening news playing loudly on the TV.
The phone buzzed in my pocket.
RJ: Hey.
I stared at the message, surprised. I’d seen her the day before at the wedding, of course, and she’d barely made eye contact with me. Luckily the photographer stayed out of her way, but she seemed to be making it a point to stay out of mine. Maybe I was staying out of her way, too. I ignored the message and shoved my phone in my pocket. I’d been so pissed on Friday night after she did a one-eighty on me. It was another example of why getting involved with her, with anyone, was a stupid idea. When they walked out, and they eventually walked out, it left you feeling helpless.
My phone buzzed again, and I sighed, telling myself to ignore it as I pulled it from my pocket and unlocked my screen.
RJ:Can we talk?
Lear:I’m in Sybel, helping my uncle.
RJ:I can call you when there’s a good time.
Uncle Harold would turn in soon, I knew, and he didn’t need me to help him into bed. He was pretty self reliant, getting annoyed with Penny or me when we overstepped while trying to help him. I was staying the night only because I’d promised to help him with the lawn the next morning.
RJ:I owe you an apology.
I was certain anyone watching me would have known how surprised I was to read those words.
I looked up to see Harold stirring in his chair. “I think I fell asleep,” he muttered, looking around.
“You still snore the same as ever,” I joked, walking into the living room.
He laughed, this belly laugh that brightened his entire face. “Too old to change now.”
“Hey, a friend is going to call—I might be out on the porch if you need me.”
