Page 19 of Damaged Protector
I’ll bet Tate and I will be great friends.
Okay, I’d spent over an hour in that damn Buc-ee’s store. I’d grabbed several flavors of beef jerky, including the one Cam wanted. I’d also purchased something called Buc-ee Nuggets, which were these puffy snacks covered with some kind of evil caramel glaze. I’d eaten half the bag while driving.
As I crept down the oak-tree-lined street in a nice Dallas neighborhood, my GPS informed me that my destination was ahead on the left, and I slowed my Accord.
“Let’s see… where’s number 215?” I muttered to myself, dipping my head to read the numbers on the mailboxes.
I found the house, a one-story red brick with a perfectly manicured lawn and pretty red and yellow flowers on either side of the porch. It was large and had a homey feel to it.
A three-car garage sat to the left side, and I parked in the driveway. If Tate needed me to move my car, I would.
Hitching my purse over my shoulder, I made my way over the stone path that led across the bright green grass to the porch. I wondered if Tate did her own lawn work or if she hired a service because everything was impeccable.
Raising my hand to knock, I let it fall when the door swung open. My jaw also fell, and I was surprised it didn’t smack against the white boards that made up the porch.
Holy freaking shit! A huge man took up the entire door frame. He was tall and wide, his hair an inky black that matched the full beard covering his face.
My eyes flitted to the numbers nailed beside the door. 215. Right house, but was I on the wrong street or something?
Realizing I was standing there like an idiot, I put on a bright smile. “Hi! I’m not sure I’m at the correct address. I’m looking for 215 Mabel Lane.” My gaze found the numbers again before returning to his dark eyes—are his irises actually black? “This is obviously 215, but am I on the wrong street? Maybe I’m on Mabel Avenue? Or Circle? Perhaps a long time ago, a group of rogue Mabels decided to name all the streets in Dallas after themselves.”
God.
Shut. Up.
The big man’s lips twitched. Am I amusing you, sir?
“This is 215 Mabel Lane.”
Oh. Okay.
“Fantasculous!” I chirped, like that was a real word. This guy had me flustered as hell. He looked like he could gobble me up in one bite. Taking a deep breath, I attempted to form words that actually belonged to the English language as I tilted my body to the left a hair to see into the house. But I couldn’t see anything around the damn grizzly bear blocking my view.
“I’m looking for Tate. I’m supposed to be staying with her. Just temporarily until the flooding situation is resolved at Cam’s house. Do you know Cam?”
A nod. “Yup.”
“Okay, ummmm, is Tate here?”
“Yup.”
“Can I talk to her, please?”
“I’m Tate.” Mr. Beard twitched as my eyes widened.
“You’re a guy,” I blurted out.
“Thanks for noticing.”
Yeah. Not difficult.
“Sooooo, I’m, uhh…” What is my name again?
“Mallori,” the man, who was apparently named Tate, filled in, his lips quirking up on one side.
“Bingo,” I said, tapping my nose before pointing at him. Why don’t we see how fucking awkward we can be, Mal? Won’t that be fun?
He backed up to allow me inside, and I entered a spacious living room with a black, sectional couch arranged in a semi-square around a silver and black coffee table.