Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(11)

“Jasper.” I swat at his shoulder. “Be nice.”

“No, thanks. I’m over being nice to that guy,” he grumbles, still ornery over dinner the other night. Not that I can blame him.

“I was planning to hyphenate?”

“Winthrop-Woodcock is no better, babe.”

I snort and am about to pester him back when I hear it. A tearing sound.

Oh my god.

Jasper freezes momentarily. “Was that . . .”

Silent laughter racks my body. “My dress? Yup.”

“Are you . . .”

“My ass still feels covered. No breeze yet.” I reach one hand back to run it over my butt—just in case. “It’s still just my hair that hurts,” I admit.

He just grumbles, picking up his pace and looking around like he’s annoyed by the idea of someone seeing what isn’t even showing. Annoyed by my hair being too tight.

I don’t know when Jasper got so . . . overprotective?

“There it is.”

The lights flash on a silver Volvo SUV, and I sigh in relief. Sure, those shoes were torture, but running barefoot on cold concrete is a close second in the discomfort department.

He places me down at the passenger’s side, but his hands don’t leave my body. His palm splays against my hip as he opens the door and lifts me into the seat. He even reaches for the seat belt to buckle me in before he stops himself.

Navy eyes land on mine momentarily and then drop to my lips. He shakes his head, his tall frame backing out of the car away from me.

He’s about to slam the door, but stops, startling me as he wrenches it back open, steps up close, and bites out, “You know what?” He reaches for my hair and gentle hands land in my tresses. “This fucking thing needs to go.”

I don’t know how he manages it, but with one well-placed tug, he pulls the main crystal-encrusted needle from my hair and tosses it on the ground. The tinny clang of it landing against the asphalt sounds loud in an otherwise quiet moment. There’s something symbolic about it.

The relief I feel is instant. The spot that hurt doesn’t anymore.

My hair tumbles freely around my cheeks, and he watches it sway. For a moment, his eyes heat and shock me when they land back on my lips.

“Is that better?” he rumbles.

My heartbeat thumps heavily in my ears and I offer a silent nod back. Not sure what to say. Trying to make sense of this version of my friend. Protective and possessive, devotion fortifying every move he makes.

He mirrors my nod wordlessly, then he steps back and slams the door.

Within moments he’s settled in the driver’s seat, and we pull out of the facility in silence. What felt like relief and freedom before slowly morphs into shock and a steady state of nausea.

A tense moment of what the fuck was that hair thing?

A heavy dose of what have I done?

I run through the conversations I’ll need to have. The contracts we’ll need to pay for a wedding that never happened. The move I’ll have to make out of Sterling’s penthouse.

Dread sinks like a heavy stone into my gut.

“Fuck my life,” I mutter, watching the city streets bleed into the freeway that leads out to Chestnut Springs.

“We still good?” I sense Jasper’s nervous glances. I know him well enough to recognize he’s stressing right now. Worrying. He’s always been good at worrying, so his anxiety is probably kicking in something fierce.

“Yeah. I could use a drink though.”

He nods, and within minutes we pull into a liquor store.

“I’ll get—” he starts, but I hop out of the car and walk toward the store like a thirsty, stunned, barefoot bride-zombie.

With long strides, he rushes ahead to pull the door open for me. As I cross the threshold, I don’t make eye contact, but I can feel him regarding me like he thinks I might snap. I think I already have.

Inside, it reeks of stale beer and Pine-Sol.

Jasper turns to peer around the small store. It’s more of a wide hallway, packed a little too tight. Kind of like the guy behind the counter, bulging out of his shirt.

“Welcome,” he grumbles, scrolling through his phone, not sparing us a glance.

“Do you want . . . Champagne?” Jasper lifts a bottle of the nicest champagne on the shelf, which is not saying much for this dive. “To . . . celebrate?”

I snort at that. “No.” I roll my lips together and keep walking further back. “I want something fattening and lowbrow. Something Sterling and my dad would never approve of.”

I hear Jasper’s chuckle behind me as I stalk toward the cold beer section at the back. The way he laughs, all soft and deep, never fails to make me feel like I’m sinking into a warm bath. He’s so serious sometimes that when he laughs, it’s precious somehow.

The grit on the floor against my bare feet makes me smile. Sterling and my dad would definitely not approve of this, so I press my soles down harder, rolling through my full foot, hoping the bottoms are black by the time I’m done shopping. A completely inconsequential rebellion, but a satisfying one nonetheless.

I stop and take in the cooler shelves. And there it is. Like a glowing beacon before me.

Buddyz Best Beer.

It’s really the Z that seals the deal for me. It’s so unnecessary. So improper. The cans look thin—cheap—with a poorly drawn cartoon basset hound on the front.