But the way he looks at Andrea, there’s something soft in it.
Something sweet and almost innocent.
Something that tells me there’s just a confused, quiet boy under all that dark armor. He wouldn’t ever hurt anyone close to Andrea, not even to get back at her overprotective daddy.
So, maybe I’m projecting, too up in my own clouds about love.
But I have a sixth sense.
“Cool shit,” he says, echoing Andrea. “You play professional?”
I don’t want to give away my thoughts, so I plaster on a smile and shrug, setting my guitar aside. “Just something I do in my spare time. What’ve you been up to?”
Andrea shrugs. “Just helping Clark get ready for the carnival. There’s going to be a fireworks show over the ice castle at the end of the night, so we’ve got a lot to do for safety stuff if Dad’s ever going to sign off on it.” She rolls her eyes, and Clark snorts.
“He’s such a pill,” he mutters. “I know what I’m doing. So does Uncle Rog. Dude helped with Burning Man shows four years in a row.”
I chuckle. “It’s Blake’s job as fire chief, that’s all. If anything goes wrong, the first person they’re going to come down on is him for not doing it right. He’s just trying to keep everyone safe.” I hesitate, watching Andrea, then venture, “…your dad’s actually been needing a few words with you.”
I don’t know how else to hint.
How else to help, when I really shouldn’t be sticking my nose in.
And I think I’ve made a mistake. Andrea instantly scowls, hissing under her breath.
“I bet he has,” she spits. “And I know what it’s about. Clark didn’t do anything. God, Dad doesn’t need to watch me all the time like I’m ten! I’m fine—fine, and he can stop being such a shitty jerk about everything! I’m not a baby anymore.”
“You’re not,” I agree softly. “But maybe you need to tell him that, not me.”
“I’ll tell him something,” Clark snaps. “I didn’t set anything on fire that wasn’t supposed to be on fire.”
Woof.
I hope to God he doesn’t say anything like that in front of Blake. It could be easily misconstrued as a subtle admission of guilt.
But I still don’t see him as a criminal, much less the gangly, scary freak who chased me down the road.
Sure, he’s tall and lean, just like the guy I saw.
Still, he doesn’t look quite right. The other guy was bulkier—whipcord lean, but older. With enough muscle to make it easier to hold his height up.
Stupid town full of stupid tall men.
Everyone here’s got a lumberjack gene here or something.
Before I can say anything else, though, there’s a slamming car door outside.
Everyone freezes, eyes widening.
Then Andrea hisses, turning to shove at Clark, pushing him toward the stairs. “Hurry up—hide! In my room before he sees y—”
“Too late,” Blake growls from the doorway.
A frigid blast of air courses in from outside.
Uh-oh.
I feel like we’re some kind of hivemind, all three of us turning slowly toward the door, my face feeling like as much of a frozen mask as theirs looks.
Crap.
Blake stands there, all protective Papa Bear with his shoulders squared, his feet planted, his huge arms folded over his chest, imposing and terrible and his face set in stone.
I didn’t even do anything, and even I feel like I’m in trouble.
He’s not focused on me, though.
His hawkish eyes are on Clark Patten.
If looks could kill, that boy would be on the floor with his feet up right now.
I try to catch Blake’s eye, but it’s no use.
Clark glares right back, fearlessly, straightening to his full height, and I cringe.
No, dude, no! Being tall right now is not a good idea.
Please don’t put ideas in Blake’s head, agh.
I have to do something.
Without thinking, I launch myself off the sofa, ducking around the coffee table to Blake’s side.
My excuse is that I’m closing the door before all the warm air escapes.
This cold could hurt a warm-weather snake like Mr. Hissyfit, after all.
But really, I just want to lean in close to Blake, as I nudge him enough to get the door shut past his bulk, stretch up on my toes, and whisper, “It’s not him. Trust me.”
His gaze snaps to me, eyes widening sharply.
He leans down to let that rumbling velvet voice move against my ear. “You better be fucking sure, darlin’.”
“I am.” I turn my head.
Our cheeks brush, and if not for the kids, this might be way too intimate.
As it is, it’s making my entire stomach knot up. “He’s too skinny, Blake. The guy I saw was bulkier. Probably older,” I whisper desperately.
Now I know how Moses felt trying to stop a fiery wrath.
Blake grunts, but straightens, and I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable yelling or fists to fly.
But there’s a gleam in his eye as he sees Clark—a sort of sharp-eyed assessment.