Page 1 of Protect My Heart

chapter one

Daphne

Men are dumb.

Especially the men of the Whitmore family—ie. my brothers and my dad. Well, mostly my brothers, of which I have three. Grady is the oldest, then Dane and then Garrett. They’re great guys, truly. Despite being huge, burly brutes, they are kind and loving. Nary a mansplainer nor a manspreader in the group.

They’re all gainfully employed. They pay their taxes and recycle.

You know what they don’t do?

They don’t see me as an adult, despite the fact that I’m a grown ass woman and fully capable of taking care of myself.

Which is why I’m twenty-three and have just now moved myself out on my own. Saddle Creek, my small hometown, has exactly two apartment villages. Yes, they’re called villages, and no, I don’t know why. One of them is for ‘active adults’ and the other one—where I’ve moved—is really an old hotel that was renovated.

The Trinity sits right on the town square and occupies most of the block. It operated as a hotel for most of the town’s history. It housed Saddle Creek’s first restaurant. It had a speakeasy back in the twenties. There was even a murder there in the fifties.

It closed in the nineties and sat empty for a while before it was bought by a mysterious investor in the early aughts who renovated it into its current state: loft apartments.

The best part is that I’m close to downtown and that I’m no longer living with my dad. Not that that was a true hardship. My dad is great. But it was time.

Time for some freedom. Maybe even some quality time with my extendable shower head without worrying about making too much noise. I’ve got needs. Oh, and time to binge watch my favorite shows, which none of the men in my family will even tolerate. Whatever.

If they can’t appreciate the subtle tension of people in period clothing gazing longingly from across a room, that’s their loss.

It’s my first night in the new place. My first shower all alone. I eye the shower head, but let’s face it, after a day of unpacking boxes, I’m just not in the mood. So I just grab my razor and make quick work of shaving my legs. I wince when I cut my shin. I rinse my body, then hop out of the shower and wrap a towel around my body.

My phone rings from somewhere out in the apartment. Wait, nope, that’s my iPad ringing with my phone. I spy my iPad on the arm of the sofa, but don’t see my phone anywhere.

I try to mentally retrace my steps and that’s when I remember I had it out on the small balcony with me earlier. I go to the windowed door and open it, then slip out to grab my phone—which is no longer ringing—off the patio chair.

The door closes behind me right as I wrap my fingers around my phone. I turn back to go back inside, but the doorknob won’t turn.

Locked.

How is it locked?

I turn it several more times, jiggling the knob to see if it’ll just magically unlock.

Because here I am standing on my patio, still dripping from my shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel that—let’s be honest here—doesn’t cover my entire body. Part of my hip and side belly are visible because my ass is too thick.

What do I do?

How do I get into these situations?

At least I have my phone. There is that.

The big question is who do I call?

My dad would come in a heartbeat to rescue me. As would any of my brothers. But then I’d be handing them proof that I can’t survive on my own. I could call a girlfriend, but the truth is, I don’t have any super close women friends. I’ve been so wrapped up in my family, helping my oldest brother, Grady, with his daughter, Taylor, that I haven’t really stepped out of my family circle. It’s part of the reason I wanted to move out in the first place. To carve out a piece of the world just for me. So I’m not just the Whitmore sister; I have my own identity.

I’d rather sleep out here all night and wait until one of my neighbors passes by in the morning. No one else has a key yet. I can’t call the apartment manager because I know the office closed a couple of hours ago and I haven’t saved any numbers in my phone. So, I either need a burglar or a civil servant trained to break into places for rescues.

I roll my eyes at myself and the debacle I’ve gotten myself into.

I’d wager that a lot of women fantasize about being rescued by a hot firefighter. I am not one of them.

One of my three over-bearing brothers is a fire fighter, which means every single one of the (admittedly hot) firefighters in my town sees me as a kid sister. Not really the stuff of fantasies.