Page 22 of My Husband Problem

“Thanks for trying to save me, though,” I say. It occurs to me that this is now the second time he’s swooped in to save me since he got back to town.

“Of course.” He says it as if it’s a given that he would do that.

“German Shepherd,” I say softly.

His gaze warms, and the corner of his mouth curls, and I realize that he likes that.

Which means I should probably stop saying it.

But I don’t want to.

Do people compliment Declan? I don’t mean on business deals. I can easily picture a conference room full of men in suits slapping him on the back and saying, “Damn good deal, O’Grady.”

But I can also easily picture even a roomful of other rich, powerful men being completely intimidated by Declan and saying nothing but, “Yes,” “Of course,” and “Great idea” to him.

Do people make him feel good? About the things he does? About himself?

Well…fuck.

One little flicker of warmth in his eyes, and I suddenly want to be sure he feels supported and encouraged and appreciated?

Dammit. I really need to get himgone. ASAP.

Declan bends and starts to gather all of my belongings into my purse. One of the otters quickly grabs a reusable straw and scampers away.

Declan takes a step in that direction, but I laugh. “Let her have it. It’s fine.” Though watching Declan chase an otter through the park would have been entertaining.

He huffs out a breath. “I’ll get you a new one.”

Right. I’ve known this man long enough to know that this is how he takes care of people: with money.From afar.

But the idea of him taking care of me up close and personal is far too appealing.

Like by sweeping me up into his arms and away from things that are hurting me or threatening me.

Dammit.

He was protective of me tonight. And it seemed instinctual rather than something he thought through.

Wouldn’t it be nice if he could help out with the real pain and things hurting you?

I can’t help those thoughts. He’s the reason I’m back in formal PT after all.

I force a smile. “I have several other straws.”

He looks frustrated by that. Probably because that means he can’t fix this.

That’s good. He needs to be frustrated. He needs to not want to be here in Rebel and with me.

Which means I am going to have to continue to push down the urges to make him feel better and make him happy.

He hands me my purse with everything inside, sans the reusable straw and shrimp.

I’m going to have to thoroughly clean it anyway. I’m sure there’s lingering sauce and spices, not to mention the smell of shrimp. We’ll see if this purse is salvageable at all. Maybe I’ll just leave it on a park bench and let the otters have the whole thing.

I pull the purse strap up onto my shoulder. “Did you walk over here?” I ask, the thought occurring to me for the first time.

“Your overly helpful neighbors told me where you were when they found me on your front porch.”