All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(50)

Lauren’s slow exhalation tickled the side of his arm. “So you intervened.”

At that point, his blood had been pounding in his temples, and the cacophony in his head had drowned out everything but one imperative: Fix this. Now.

“I removed his hand from her arm. Not gently. Then he took a swing at me, and I swung back, and all hell broke loose.” He didn’t know who’d given him the shiner. Not the Brit, anyway, since that fucker had gone down with the first punch. “Right before the police came, she managed to pull me aside and begged me not to mention or describe her, because she was on the run.”

Thus the bruises and the fear in her expression, in her every movement.

“I tried to offer help.” In fact, he’d done his own begging, but she’d been terrified out of her fucking mind, too terrified to do anything but flee. “Then the cops arrived, and she sprinted toward the employee area and disappeared into the back, and I never saw her again.”

He hoped to fuck she’d found somewhere safe to hole up and gotten help. Real help. The sort of help that would let her stop hiding and rebuild a life free from fear and violence.

Lauren made a sort of humming sound. “Then the police questioned you, and you didn’t say a word about her.”

“I kept my promise,” he said simply.

Another squeeze of his nape. “And I take it the Brit didn’t mention his own transgressions when describing yours.”

“According to him, I punched him unprovoked, in a drunken rage. It was like she’d never existed.” Which was what she’d wanted, but horrifying in its own way. “I didn’t argue. I just called my lawyer, who called other people. They sprang me from jail and got the charges dropped.”

And then, only an hour or so later, a stranger had appeared on a shoreline battlefield.

Lauren Clegg. His nanny. His friend. His obsession. His confessor.

And if she was playing priest to his unrepentant sinner, he might as well scour his soul entirely clean, right?

“Before we end this game of True Confessions, you should know: Bruno Keene is a fucking abusive asshole, and I was telling the truth when I said that. The crew and other actors on the All Good Men set didn’t want to risk their reputations by backing me up, and I get that”—mostly—“but I was telling the truth.”

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay. I believe you.”

She was stroking his neck now, gently playing with the ends of his hair there, and it was so soothing, he wanted to cry. With each moment, his skull’s throbbing waned, and his pulse calmed, and his head felt—he didn’t know. Lighter?

And then—and then …

Those caresses, those slight tugs of his hair, weren’t so soothing. His scalp was tingling, afire with the tease of sensation, and he didn’t want to cry anymore.

He wanted to kiss her.

Her. Nanny Clegg. Harpy-in-Training. Killjoy Extraordinaire.

His friend, who had the warmest, loveliest eyes he’d ever seen, sharp, fascinating features, and a round, soft body that he sometimes found himself staring at for no good reason.

And she was touching him, stroking his neck, and—

He raised his head and looked down at her.

The concern in her gaze touched his heart, but he didn’t want concern right now.

He wanted heat.

Her fingers remained threaded through his hair, and the weight of her palm on his nape seemed to drag his head lower, lower, lower. Her soft chin trembled, and her lips parted, and shit, he wanted to taste that mouth and discover if it was exactly as tart-sweet as she was.

But—fucking hell. He couldn’t.

As far as he could tell, she tolerated him with grudging fondness. He certainly hadn’t noticed any signs of attraction. Even if he had, he was her job, and he wasn’t fucking harassing her at work.

Reluctantly, he shifted away from her. Her hand fell from his nape, and he bit back a needy sound in favor of his usual nonsense. “Now that I’ve bared my very soul to you, Sister Clegg, stop trying to distract me from the matter at hand.”

He shook a chiding finger at her, but she didn’t take the bait. Instead, her gaze was still warm and tender on him, and he allowed that look to soak into his heart like rain on parched, cracked earth.

Then he made his position clear. “If you don’t want me to defend you because it embarrasses you or makes you uncomfortable, then okay. I won’t like it—I’ll fucking hate it—but I’ll accept your decision and try my best to do what you’re asking. But if you don’t want me to defend you because you don’t think you’re worth the risk to my career, then that’s a different matter entirely, and no. I refuse to abide by your wishes.”

Fretfully, she rubbed at her temples, but he didn’t let her off the hook.

“So what is it, Wren?” With his forefinger, he tipped up her chin until she met his eyes again. “Do I follow your advice or my own instincts?”

Her face puckered in thought, and it was fucking adorable, and he hoped like hell she gave him the answer he wanted. Because a woman who’d spent her life serving and protecting others at the cost of her own safety and emotional well-being deserved a champion.

A better one than him, obviously. But he was what she had right now, poor woman, and he wanted her to accept his entirely inadequate fealty.