A family that doesn’t need me, I remind myself. I swallow. I’m the one who wants them. But a family is a family. And I will chase that holiday dream all the way to Phoenix.
“My grandmother was rough around the edges, but she was the only one who loved me enough to care of me,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty.
“Was?” Trent asks.
“She died seven years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” I shrug, then laugh when I think about her last words. I wasn’t raised a praying woman, but for her, I did pray. I prayed at her bedside, begging her not to leave me all alone with a woman who barely acknowledged my existence. After thirty minutes of my sobbing, she opened one eye and said, “Stop that nonsense.”
I didn’t. But she went anyway.
Trent and I walk in silence, weaving through the machines and drunk people. A group of rowdy men pass, and Trent scoots closer to me.
“Do you need protection, Princess?” I say.
He frowns. “I was protectingyou.”
I pat his bicep. He’s got a very nice bicep. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself. But don’t worry, big guy, I’ve got yo–”
My body connects with something moments before my head does. The something moves, and I lose my balance. It’s only as I’m going down that I realize what I’ve stumbled into. A giant cardboard cutout of a shirtless man advertising his spectacular dance moves. Or something of the like.
But before I can fully tackle the lifeless man, a strong arm latches onto my waist and spins me around and up into a just-as-gratifying chest.
My eyes find Trent’s, his ocean-blue irises dancing in delight.
“You were saying?”
My lips part. Was I saying something? Oh, right, the protector thing.
I swallow, my gaze darting to his lips, then back to his eyes. “That was, um, a test. And you passed. Congratulations. I shall let you be my protector, for now.”
“Shall?” He muses. “Did your van take us to the Dark Ages?”
My lips quirk up. “Well, wewerediscussing chain mail, and I have a follow-up question. Did you wear a shirt underneath it?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he says and steps away, but his eyes linger on me like he’s making sure I’m stable.
I’m not. I’m still disoriented from being in his arms, then out of them. But he must sense that I’m fine and walks away. He’s already ten steps ahead and I have to run to catch up.
“Follow up to the follow-up question. Do you still have it?” I ask louder to be heard over the ringing machine to our left.
He doesn’t say anything but raises an amused brow.
“What doesthatmean?”
He shrugs.
“Trent.” I grab his arm and attempt to stop him. It’s futile. He’s dragging me with his ridiculous strength. “Ineedto know. If this is my last dying breath, I need to know if Trent Henry Bentley keeps chain mail in the back of his closet.”
He snorts. “One, you’re not dying. And two, that’s not my name.”
“And three? The chain mail?”
“No comment.”
His third no. He’s left me no choice. “Trentley—“
