“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you of all people ought to know you lost the right to even offer your input into my life a long time ago.” Keep your shit together. Don’t let him see your tears. He’s not worth it.
“As of today,” he continued, his ice-blue eyes trained on her face, “I’m in charge of your safety. Every move you make will be subject to my approval. And you’re sure as hell not going to Paris. End of story.”
“Why not throw a ‘fuck’ in there for added emphasis?” she rasped, anger once again swapping seats with her sadness. “How about I try it?” She snatched his hat and shifted it away from his chest so she could walk her fingers up his wall of muscle, then settled her palm over his heart. It was beating fast and erratically. “You’re not in charge of me in any aspect. You don’t get to tell me what to do. And I am going to Paris. End of fucking story.”
“Ella Mae,” he said through clenched teeth as he reached out and cupped her chin, “you don’t have any idea what I’m capable of, and you don’t want to find out.”
Chills chased over her spine from what felt like a threat, which was the last thing she’d ever expect from the man who kept trying to protect her from everything but that broken heart.
“Don’t test me,” he growled out.
“Or what?” she snapped, pulling her hand back, but he was quicker. The palm that’d cupped her chin now grasped her wrist. “And why do you always have to be such a dick?”
“Why do you have to be so damn mouthy?” he shot back, then his forehead relaxed a little as if he’d lost sight of why they’d been talking. “There are no measures I won’t take in the name of keeping you safe. So, if I have to tie you up myself and hide you somewhere to stop you from going to Paris, so be it.”
Normally, Ella would have laughed off the kidnapped-by-Jesse thing. It sounded like a plot from one of Savanna’s mafia romance novels.
But she knew he wasn’t kidding around, and she didn’t think it was Paris that had him spooked. He’d looked haunted before she’d revealed that. Hell, ever since . . . “Who was that at your place this morning? And try the truth this time.”
“The less you know, the better.” He unhanded her and shook his head, apparently snapping free of some weird spell. It was like he’d been possessed by some dark force and was suddenly Jesse again.
Though, what did her trip to Paris have to do with anything?
“Tell me what’s going on, damn it,” she demanded. But when he remained silent, she turned and started for Lady. Ella hadn’t taken more than two steps before he hooked her waist to stop her, causing her to trip on a rock. She went sailing, along with the hat on her head and Jesse’s hat in her hand.
How Jesse wound up sliding under her and cushioning her fall, she had no idea. How was it possible for a human being to be that fast? But she was now straddling him, their hats lost to the grass somewhere nearby, and her heart pounding.
Ella sat up, hands to his chest, but she could feel his cock pressed against his jeans and . . . it was in the right spot to make her rational thoughts fly out the window.
Jesse leaned up on his forearms, but she neither scrambled off him nor removed her hands from his chest.
“I hate you, you know that, right?”
Jesse sat up a little more, which only positioned her in an even more compromising position, his hard length thick against her center. The urge to grind on him was strong.
“I know you do, and you should,” Jesse said, his tone carrying a hint of remorse. He gently brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her face, the delicate touch such a contrast to the savage mood he’d been in moments ago. “But you’re just going to have to hate me even more because over my dead body are you going to Paris.”
“Sis, this is . . .”
Ella chewed on her thumbnail as her brother Beckett, known to all as the grumpy sheriff, scrolled through her Instagram account. He was the oldest of the siblings, as in over the big four-oh, and for some reason, she’d been the most nervous about his opinion.
“It’s like a four-alarm fire,” her brother Shep, one of only two firefighters in their small town, shot out.
Jesse hadn’t spoken a word to her since their little tussle in the field, where he’d issued insane commands like they were playing a game of guess how big of a dick Jesse can be. It was crazy that she’d found herself aroused by his out-of-nowhere caveman attitude on the matter of Paris. Hell, she’d wanted to grind against the bulge in his jeans.
It had been twenty or so minutes since supper finished, and after he’d cleaned his plate, Jesse had gone outside, where he was currently pacing with his phone to his ear.
“What in the blazes are you talking about?” Rory swatted Shep on the back of the head like he was her brother too. “There’s nothing four-alarm about this. Not that I know what that means, but don’t overreact.”
“Ella’s photos are online for any creeper, catfisher, or crazy person to see,” Shep returned. When Ella glanced over at A.J., who was holding on to his son and rocking him in his big teddy bear arms, it was clear that the same thoughts were going through his head too.
Beckett’s unfinished sentence still dangled in the air, and it had Ella wondering if he was worried she’d be a bad influence on her niece. His daughter, McKenna, was thirteen years old and thought Ella hung the moon.
“Y’all are acting like I posted nudes or half-naked photos there,” Ella exclaimed, eyeing Beckett and her other brother, Caleb, who were the only two sitting at the kitchen island.
The remaining guests were in the living room, and from the sounds of it, her father was playing his harmonica. So, at the moment, Ella was alone with her big brothers and her best friend. Hopefully, Rory could help her knock some sense into these overbearing men.
“Pictures aren’t always about how much skin is showing,” Shep pointed out, and what did that even mean?
Caleb snatched the phone from Beckett and smirked. Well, a smile was a good sign, she supposed. “Bama Babe for a hashtag, huh?”
“Did you see the one below that? Save a horse, ride a cowboy?” Beckett grumbled.
“That’s totally a common phrase,” Ella sputtered, her cheeks heating at the words she’d typed coming from her brother’s mouth.
Beckett, who was still in his sheriff’s uniform, pushed away from the kitchen island and stood. Gun at his side. “Paris, huh?”
“You do realize I didn’t plan to ask permission from anyone here, right?” Ella sought Rory’s gaze for support, but Rory was busy taking A.J.’s son from his arms. Mommy fever. Maybe she and Chris would start trying soon. And then Jesse would be an uncle.
Oy. Jesse. Not the man I want to be thinking about now. Ella stole another look out the window, but Jesse was no longer in sight.
“What’s Jesse think about this? He didn’t say a word at dinner.” Since Rory had the baby secure in her arms, A.J. set his back to one of the counters and folded his arms, positioning his attention squarely on Ella.
Marcus Alexander was barely three months old. A.J. and Ana had asked Savanna if it was okay to name their firstborn after her late husband, knowing she’d already decided it might be tough for her to choose the name if or when she and Griffin had a child. She’d happily agreed to the name.