More Than Protect You: A More Than Words Novella

by Shayla Black

  “It was final in every way but legally a long time ago. I’ve been ready to move on, and I’ve been searching. I think I stopped searching when I met you.”

  “I want to believe you…” But she’s been burned—badly.

  “I know. Wait here.”

  I push away from the kitchen counter and trek down the hall, into the little office beside the master. After stepping over the inflatable mattress, I rifle through my duffel until I pull out the thick envelope, then head back to the kitchen. “Got a pen?”

  She rummages through the drawers until she finds one and hands it to me with a curious stare.

  I open the envelope, unfold the thick pages of the divorce decree, then press the pen everywhere I see a tape flag, signing my name and ending my marriage for good. “Unlike Barclay, when I tell you the marriage is over, I don’t mean that figuratively. I’m absolutely serious. These papers go in the mail tomorrow. Once the judge processes them, Ellie and I will officially be exes. Did Barclay Reed ever even try to divorce his wife?”

  “No. He said he would, but…she ended up trying to divorce him.”

  “I’ll never lie to you. I just want a chance to give you what you need.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think you can give me what I need in return.”

  Amanda reaches for me, then seems to think better and pulls her hand back. “I have to think about it.”

  “Sure.”

  She frowns. “What are you going to tell my father tomorrow?”

  “To fu—” I see the iPad on the tile, forgotten, and Oliver still blinking up at us—“I mean, to pound sand.”

  “Really? Even without knowing if I’ll choose you?”

  “Yep. No matter what you decide.” I cup her cheek. “I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t pick me. I’m broke and between businesses. I’m—”

  “A seemingly good, honest man. And if you’re everything I think you are, then I’d be a fool to turn you down.”

  “So don’t.”

  She looks up at me. Her mysterious expression tells me her feelings run deep…but I can’t read what they are. “Let me think. I’ll let you know when I decide.”

  Chapter Six

  As we finally finish the online grocery order and arrange a pick-up time, Oliver gets restless and cranky. We feed him the sliced turkey Masey left, along with some baby carrots. While Amanda cleans up after him and tries to soothe his fussy grunts and cries, I attack the crib Griff brought, glad I only need minimal tools, which he lent me, to assemble it.

  Twenty minutes later, Amanda makes up the baby bed with clean sheets, then sets him in the master closet. “It’s cooler and quieter in here, which helps him sleep.”

  She plugs in a nightlight just outside, in the adjoining bathroom, then leaves the master bedroom door cracked behind her. “We should be good for an hour or two.”

  “I think you’re hidden here, at least temporarily. But have you given any thought to the idea that Oliver might be safer elsewhere?”

  “There are a lot of pros and cons, no matter where he is.”

  “Sure, but let’s be honest. No one is after him; they’re after you.”

  She fidgets like she knows I’m right and hates to admit it. “Even so, I think keeping him with me is best for both of us.”

  I’m not his mom, so I can’t argue her choice but… “Even though he’s more of a target with you?”

  “No one else will risk everything to keep him safe the way I will.”

  Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, she clearly doesn’t expect her family or friends to put their lives on the line for her son. I’m still feeling my way around Amanda, but her choice isn’t simply misguided insistence on being independent, despite the danger. I bet it has a lot more to do with her trust issues.

  “While he’s down, I’ll start teaching you the self-defense I promised.”

  “I took some classes shortly after Barclay was arrested and I got accosted on the street for the first time. I could probably use a refresher later, but let’s start with firearms.”

  I wish I’d been there to protect her. Losing her sense of anonymity and security must have been terrifying, especially when assholes started threatening her baby, too. “Sure. Let me go gather my gear, and I’ll talk you through the basics.”

  “Where should we practice?”

  “We won’t be able to actually shoot here. Tomorrow, maybe some of your family can watch Oliver for a couple of hours so we can get to a gun range. It should be safe enough, and you’ll need the practice. You’ll need to be familiar with the weapon in your hand if you have to use it to defend yourself. You’ll—”

  “Can’t we do it now?”

  She’s determined, and I appreciate that. Amanda never wants to be a victim again. “Let’s try. I have an idea. I need to make a phone call.”

  “Thank you.”

  While she hustles away to find her purse and shoes, I pull out the card Griff gave me earlier—it tells me he’s a Realtor—and give him a call. He and Britta are happy to help out, and their boys should both be awake in an hour.

  When Amanda returns to the kitchen, I fill her in, then raid the last of Masey’s leftovers in the refrigerator. As I put my plate in the dishwasher, Oliver stars howling from the other side of the house.

  “He shouldn’t already be awake. Ugh, his sleep schedule is so off,” she groans as she jogs down the hall.

  A minute later, she returns, carrying a plastic bag with a presumably wet diaper in one hand, while trying to balance the big hunk of boy against her chest with the other.

  “I’ll take him.” I hurry to help her.

  “Really? Thanks.”

  I ruffle Oliver’s hair, and she smiles wistfully. “Barclay never held him, you know. Not once. For all the promises he made me and all the times he told me I was his world, when life got real his only priority was himself.”

  “If Reed wasn’t already dead, I’d throttle him for the sheer joy of seeing the selfish bastard die.” It’s also too bad that the guy who offed Reed isn’t still alive. I’d like to shake his hand.

  Amanda blinks at me as if I’ve stunned her.

  “Sorry, but I can’t mourn a guy who took advantage of you, lied to you, then turned his back on you when it mattered most.”

  She shakes her head. “By then, I didn’t mourn, either. Once Barclay walked away from me, I saw exactly the man he was—a terrible partner and father, not to mention a thief. If you had been first in line to kill him, I might have shoved you out of the way so I could do the honors. The world is better off without him.”

  Every time I think Amanda is soft and sweet, if a little mysterious, she completely blindsides me. She’s tough when it counts. How else could she have fought off an intruder with a knife? How else has she endured months of a mob hunting her down?

  I know I shouldn’t touch her, but I can’t resist. “I’ve never met a woman who’s surprised me more. You intrigue the hell out of me, Mandy.”

  “No one has ever called me that. I kind of like it.” She sends me another one of her Mona-Lisa smiles as she slips her purse onto her shoulder and we leave.

  A few minutes later, we arrive at Griff and Britta’s. The place is cottage-style and beachfront. The exterior looks charming. Then Britta opens the door to reveal a gorgeous interior, the back a solid wall of floor-to-ceiling glass doors that open to an expansive lanai overlooking the Pacific that would make most Mainlanders weep for their slice of paradise.

  Inside, Griff is bouncing Jamie on his knee, while Britta, his pretty blond wife, invites us in, then follows behind, cuddling their infant.

  “Forgive us. We only moved in a few months ago, and with the new baby, we haven’t finished unpacking the last of the boxes.”

  Honestly, I hadn’t even noticed. I was stuck on the sick ocean views.

  “Angel, it’s fine. Don’t worry. They’re here so Oliver can play with the boys, not to judge our organizational skills.”

  “I kno
w, but I meant to be done by now, and I thought I’d have a chance to finish after Grayson was born, but…”

  “One day at a time,” Griff soothes her. “The morning sickness will go away eventually, then you can spend the last two trimesters ‘nesting.’”

  “You’re pregnant again?” Amanda asks. “Congratulations!”

  “Thanks. We found out earlier this week. We’re going to tell the family tonight. It came sooner than we expected…” She sends Griff a scolding glance.

  He sets Jamie aside with a ruffle of his hair, then saunters over to his wife and palms her belly. “I’m not sorry. I missed everything with Jamie. Seems like Gray arrived in a blink. Besides”—he kisses her forehead—“I love making babies with you.”

  She swats his arm, but she’s trying to suppress a grin. “TMI. We have guests.”

  They have what I want. Funny how just this morning I was convinced that I’d put away all thoughts of marriage and babies and happily ever after. The truth isn’t that I didn’t want them anymore; I just didn’t want them with Ellie.

  I have a weird feeling things could be completely different with Amanda.

  “I’m pretty sure they know where babies come from,” Griff says in a stage whisper.

  “You’re incorrigible.” She rolls her eyes, but I see her lurking smile before she turns back to us. “Can I get you two anything?”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “If we’re going to get in some good practice rounds, we need to head out.”

  “We’re here until six-thirty, so—”

  “We’ll be back way before then,” Amanda promises, then hands Griff Oliver’s diaper bag and jots down her number. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “You got it,” Griff assures as he encourages Jamie—who’s a big boy of not quite four—to play nicely with Oliver.

  Then Amanda hugs her son before we hop back into the Mustang and head out to the nearest shooting range. “I’m going to rent you a collection of handguns to see what you like best.”

  “The smaller the better.”

  “Not necessarily,” I tell her as I surge through a green light. “If someone breaks into your house with the intent to kill you, you need to put him down. Some small guns will only piss off an intruder. Smaller guns also have more kickback, meaning as soon as you pull the trigger they’re harder to control, so the bullet won’t necessarily go where you think it will.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize…”

  “I’m going to start you with a couple of nine millimeter semiautomatics and thirty-eight revolvers. The latter is easier to use, but slower to load. It’s a trade-off.”

  “What do you have?”

  “A Glock. Great guns, but not optimal for someone with a child. No safety. So we’ll look at some others that make more sense for you and your use around home.”

  “All right.”

  We arrive a few minutes later, and I rent her a small collection of weapons, buy her some ear protection, grab a few paper targets, then carry everything into the indoor range. At our station, I show her how to load and unload each. I demonstrate how to make sure each gun is empty of ammo and how to store both the firearm and the bullets. Then I make her put everything into practice, loading the weapon and completing all the steps to ready it for fire. When I’m satisfied she’s got the basics, I attach the target, then send it out into our lane with the press of a button. Not too far. She doesn’t need to be a sharpshooter, and none of the guns I’ve selected are built for that. She just needs to practice putting someone down in a relatively close-combat situation, in case nothing else stands between her and death.

  Finally, I show her how to hold the weapon and how to stand, adjusting her shoulders down and ensuring her fingers aren’t anywhere near the trigger until she’s ready to fire. But touching her inflames me. I’m all around her, feeling her softness, smelling that hint of flowers on her that drives me half-crazy, and watching her seriousness. She wants to learn, and I’m getting the clue that when Amanda focuses she can be relentless.

  “Good. There’s your target out there.” I point. “Breathe normal and remember that, in real life, you’ll be panicked. Your adrenaline will be rushing. It will be hard as fuck to focus. Remembering to breathe may be the one thing that steadies you in a crisis. It may mean the difference between life and death.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Now give your paper intruder hell.”

  She empties the first revolver and does fairly well. She doesn’t hit the person drawn on the target more than once or twice, but if he’d truly been someone invading her place, she would have at least scared the piss out of him. Ditto with the second revolver, though she had more control over that weapon, probably because she’s getting the hang of it.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Still a little jittery.”

  “Revved up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s just a fraction of what you’ll feel in a real-world situation.”

  She nods, then loads her first semiautomatic, slamming in the magazine like a pro. “I’ll get this if I practice, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. Then next time someone breaks into my house, maybe I won’t be so terrified because I won’t have to come so damn close to the crazy man as I did when I hit him on the head with a vase.”

  “Let’s go again.”

  I love the way she’s determined. I’d rather be the one taking care of her, but if she won’t let me, I’ll feel a shit ton better knowing she’s capable. And with her third weapon, she shows me she’s getting more proficient.

  “This is the last weapon for you to fire.” I hand her the firearm and explain how it’s different from the last nine millimeter she fired. “The trigger may be a little stiffer, but the barrel is longer, so you’ll have less kickback.”

  She wraps her small fingers around it with a frown. “It’s awfully big. And heavy.”

  “It’s a double-stack, meaning there are two rows of bullets in the magazine, not just one. You may not need that for home security, but since they had this available as a rental, I wanted you to see the difference. Give it a whirl.” I point out to the fresh target I pinned for her. “Try for head and chest shots.”

  I’d be happy if she hit the target anywhere on the body, but this will give her someplace specific to focus.

  Amanda nods, then aims and fires. Instantly, I can see she’s adopting all the adjustments I’ve given her since we started—and it’s showing. By the time she empties the magazine, more than one shot has penetrated the paper intruder—one right between the eyes.

  “You did fantastic,” I praise.

  “That felt surprisingly good. This gun was actually the easiest to use.” She sets it on the counter, then smiles up at me.

  She’s pleased with herself, and she should be.

  “I thought it might be, despite its size.” I bring the target in and let her examine it, pointing out some of her best shots. “And you’ve never shot before?”

  “Never.”

  “Honestly, if we keep practicing, I think you’ll get proficient quickly.”

  Her lips curl up more, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen her genuine smile. Not the one she pastes on to be polite. Not the one she gives me when she disagrees but doesn’t want to say so. Not the one she flashes when she’s keeping something secret. Not even the one she sends Oliver that shows how much she loves him. Best of all? This smile is only for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  She frowns in confusion. “For what? Did I do something wrong?”

  “When you look at me like that, I can’t resist you.” I palm her nape and seize her lips, falling into her pillowy softness and losing myself in everything that makes Amanda so lush and female.

  She doesn’t hesitate or pull back. Instead, she opens and gives me total dominion over her mouth. It’s heady, and that does something to me because I know she doesn’t trust easily. I pull her c
loser, deepen the kiss…and wish like hell we were someplace alone.

  The guy in the lane next to us, who I’m pretty sure is an off-duty cop, starts firing. Mandy jolts. I pull back with a frustrated groan, which is drowned out by the sounds of more gunfire, and try to hide another erection. Fuck, I’ve been able to control my reactions for years. Around Amanda, I seem to have as much mastery over my body as I did at sixteen.

  “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

  “Already?”

  “We’re out of ammo. Hopefully, we can come back soon.” I load the rentals back in our borrowed case, take her hand, and turn the weapons back in. Then I lead her to the car. “So you liked it?”

  “I’m surprised, but yes. It’s a shockingly good stress reliever.”

  I laugh. Mandy is full of surprises—and I love that. She’s on the small side and a girly kind of girl. I wasn’t sure she’d be into shooting. Some women I’ve taught in the past were gung-ho to start, then found it too loud after a few rounds. Others still found the paper targets that resemble people too real and objected on principle. I get that, but when I’d push back and ask them if they’d registered for my class as a means of self or home defense—most had—they would say they didn’t think they could pull the trigger if push came to shove. I disagree; the survival instinct is strong. But I always smiled and refunded their money, regardless.

  “It is.”

  “You said earlier that you found a place you’d like to open a range?”

  “I think so, yeah,” I answer as I pull out of the parking lot.

  “That’s exciting. When are you going to do it?”

  I shrug. “I need the money first.”

  “Is that why you agreed to bodyguard me this week?”

  “No. Trace asked, and I always like to help friends. Then he mentioned they were threatening you and Oliver, and that just pissed me off. But I have to be honest. Everything changed when I saw you.”

  She gets quieter. “And?”

  “I wanted you. It was instant. I worry about that, Mandy. A distracted bodyguard is a bad one.”

  “You’ve been great,” she insists. “And I’m convinced you would protect me if someone threatened me.”