With a stabilizing breath, I follow John out of the kitchen, through the living room and down a poorly lit hallway that leads to the back of the house. He enters a room and turns on a light. I hesitate briefly before following him inside. When I see the contents of the room, my jaw drops. There are hundreds of walking sticks in neat rows along the wall. Wood shavings litter the ground, so much that none of the floorboards are visible. An industrial table is pushed up against the wall, covered in tools I don’t recognize and a pair of safety goggles.
John clears his throat hard in the middle of the room, his ripped arms crossed over his huge chest. “Take your pick.”
Still in shock by the magnitude of his operation, I cross to the closest wall and carefully pick up one of the walking sticks. It’s an absolute work of art. The handle of the one I’ve selected has been crafted into the shape of a dragon head. The details are stunning that I discover something new every time I turn it over. “John…”
He exhales in a rush.
Because I used his name?
“Who are you making these for?”
“It’s just a hobby.”
I give him an oh please look. “Who are they for?”
His resting scowl face is firmly in place, but I don’t take back the question. “Wounded army veterans,” he says, finally. Reluctantly. “Soldiers who are having difficulty walking.”
The urge to hug him, touch him in some way, is so strong that a tremble moves through me. “How do you find the men in need?”
“Military hospitals. Veterans associations. Things like that.”
“Have you ever thought of putting them online? Giving family members of the wounded a chance to buy them—”
“I don’t charge anything.”
“Oh.” This man. Who is he? “Maybe you could charge a small amount and donate the profits to wounded veterans.” I shake myself and replace the walking stick, picking up a new one, examining it. “Sorry, I’m majoring in marketing and I should really learn to turn my brain off. They’re just so incredible. People should get a chance to see them.”
John grunts. “Your idea. It’s good.” He scans the wall of walking sticks. “I wouldn’t mind charging as long as the money went somewhere worthy.”
“I can help you,” I whisper. “When or if you decide…”
Several beats pass before he nods.
Knowing I should keep my distance, I ignore my common sense and move closer to John, taking my phone out of my back pocket. “There is a really good website dedicated to handmade items…”
I unlock my phone, intending to open my internet browser.
Instead, it opens right to my Instagram page.
Mortification streaks through my middle. Must I really employ duck face so often? When am I going to outgrow mirror selfies?
I’m scrambling to close the dratted app, when I notice John has gone tense beside me. Slowly, I look up at the man to find his gaze rapt on the screen of my phone. Doing a mental catalogue of the pictures on display, I realize there are more than a few taken in my bathing suit. Even more in sports bras and yoga pants. Mason is the instigator of this. He’s always snapping shots of me and insisting I, “Put them on social asap or it never happened.”
I do the same for him. It’s what Generation Z besties do best.
John’s breathing changes, deepening and accelerating. I love him looking at me in my abbreviated attire, I realize. A heavy throb begins between my legs, my lower body squeezing painfully when he takes the phone out of my hand and starts to scroll through the photos, tapping on certain ones and growling roughly at the full-sized versions. Take the phone back. What is wrong with you?
“You shouldn’t be looking at those,” I manage. “This is wrong.”
He cuts a harsh look in my direction. “No more wrong than what I’ve been thinking since you showed up.”
“John.”
With a muttered curse, he hands me back the phone and backs away, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Go to bed, Lyssa. Take one of the upstairs guest rooms and for the love of God, lock the fucking door.”
I flinch at implication that he would enter my room and have his way with me. I’m mostly seriously turned on by it. But there’s another part of me, the part that’s still reeling from my attack, that identifies his words as a threat, even though my heart and instincts are positive John would never hurt me. Still, the memory of that night is already being let in and I can’t avoid it.
John comes toward me, his irritation slowly giving way to concern. “What’s wrong?”
My headshake is so rapid it makes me dizzy. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” He runs his hands up my bare arms. “Christ, you’re shaking.” I’m pulled into his all-encompassing embrace and I sag. My sudden, boneless state is involuntary, but God, he’s just so warm and reassuring. His big hand cups the back of my head, his heart pounds in my ears and I never want to leave. “I’ve got you. The safest place you’ll ever be is with me.”