The cameras and everything else actually do help. A lot.

I feel more secure at the diner, and I don't have any problems convincing the rest of the staff to open for real the next day. Customers go in and out, the cameras catch them all, and it feels like I've actually got someone looking out for me and mine. It's like an extra wall around a fortress. I know Blake's still out there somewhere, just waiting to find a way in. But he'll have to work harder, and I'm starting to believe that these security measures will be enough to put him away after the fact.

It's harder at my apartment. I've been working late nights to avoid spending a lot of time at home. Mom's noticed, and she's offered a few times to let me stay with her, but if I can't actually exist in my own home, I'm not living much of a life.

So I leave work only when exhaustion is at its peak, and I fall into bed before my brain has much of a chance to work itself into a frenzy. It's not the healthiest way to live, but it's helping me survive right now.

In fact, I'm able to survive for a full week. The kitchen's fully operational, the process of getting insurance to fill my claim has been started, the sheriff's office hasn't badgered me for anything else, and it's back to business as usual with Reeve and I. He comes in for his one decent meal of the day and—knowing the trash he's eating outside of these four walls—I take it upon myself to cook for him. I've even gotten him to expand to a few other sections of the menu, going from his usual omelet to eggs Benedict and a bananas foster pancake special when he was feeling particularly adventurous.

When Friday night rolls around, I've hit such a routine that I get The Meatwagon—the food cart I bring to the high school football games and other town events—ready to go.

It's late in the season and cold as balls, but there's a good turnout. I park right outside the field and get the patties on the grill, setting up an assembly line of bags, wrappers, buns, and toppings. It doesn't take long for customers to start arriving, and within ten minutes or so, I'm already swamped with people waiting for the meat to finish cooking.

"What can I get you?" I ask the next person before I even look to see who it is.

"Four cheeseburgers, please. One with no onions, one with no pickles."

Julie Peterson's soft-spoken voice makes me smile, and I turn my attention toward her. "I’m never going to be able to sell you on the many virtues of onions, huh?"

Her face scrunches, but she smiles. "Nope."

I flip the set of patties I've got on the hot side of the grill and start making her order with the batch I let cool. "Whole crew here today?"

She nods. "Riley wants her dad to see some of the football games so he'll stop freaking out about her playing next year."

One burger down. I wrap it, put it into a bag, and start on the next. "Good luck with that."

"He’s gotten better about it," she says, her tone a bit defensive. Which is fair, since he's taken her in. And he is her girlfriend's dad. "And he already said he'll let her play."

Two more burgers wrapped and ready to go. "What about you? Are you starting college this year, or taking a break?"

The seniors have a few more months of torture left to endure, but that summer will go by in the blink of an eye. Even the year I spent traveling with Mom went by crazy fast.

"I got accepted at the University of Kentucky, so I'll start there in the fall."

"That's awesome news!" I reach out with my free arm and give her as much of a hug as I can manage. "Make sure you stop by the diner before you take off, all right?"

Finishing up the order, I hand her the bag in exchange for her cash.

"I will," she says with a bright smile, heading off past the long line that's gathered behind her.

It's forty-five minutes of burger gridlock as I serve what must be almost every person in the stands. The game's already started, and I glance up from the grill every now and again when the crowd starts getting loud, but mostly my focus is on completing orders.

Eventually, though, there's a lull. Just a few people wander over, following the call of their stomachs and the lure of that good, good grill smell. It leaves enough time for my eyes and my thoughts to wander, my unfocused gaze moving around the bleachers.

And then I see it.

A shock of bleach blond hair done up in a spiky style. A face that's a little too angular, a nose that's a little too big, but still cuts an attractive profile. Clothes I'd almost describe as "preppy"—a wrinkle-free polo and pressed khakis.

Blake. I'd know him anywhere.

My heart drops so far into my gut that I feel like I'm going to be instantly sick. Sweat breaks out on my brow, the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. And all I can do is stand there, completely frozen as he slowly turns to face me, flashing me that grin that's a little too wide, but brings out his dimples.

"Think they might be burning."

It's not Blake's voice I hear. Blake's was always a little on the high side, with a whine that lifted the end of almost every sentence he spoke. The voice breaking through my stupor is deep, rich, and touched by the slightest accent.

And when it finally reaches me, it gives me some clarity. The blond guy turning toward me isn't looking at me, and he isn't Blake. He isn't even wearing what I thought he was wearing. I let out a shaky breath, that massive burst of adrenaline still flooding my veins.

"Hey. You okay?"

I look up to find Reeve's intensely dark eyes focused on me. His brows are drawn down, his lips are just barely parted, and his features are nothing like real or imagined Blake's. His face is more square—especially his jaw. He's made up of strong angles, but none of them are too severe. His nose is a little crooked in the bridge like it's been broken before, but it fits perfectly with the rest of his ruggedly imperfect face.

"Yeah. Yeah, fine," I stammer out.

I finally realize what he said when my vision is suddenly clouded by smoke. My beautiful patties are definitely burning, no question about it. I make haste to get them flipped, but the flames have charred both sides beyond any hope of edibility.

"I'll take one of those," Reeve offers.

I just laugh. "Yeah, I am not serving you a charcoal briquette with ketchup on top. Even if it is better than what you normally eat."

He smirks, and I tend to the patties that are still salvageable, trying to calm the shaking of my hand. Reeve must notice, because he comments again.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Fine," I say with a tight smile. And then, because I'm apparently a massive idiot and a prick when I'm suffering from adrenaline overload, I add, "So what is this? Are you stalking me now?"

I know it's fucking stupid the moment the words leave my mouth, but apparently I'm committed to this level of idiocy. Even as Reeve's expression falls, some of the color leaving his face, I don't backpedal.

God forbid a Tillman ever admit they fucked up in the moment.

"I catch the games sometimes. When I'm off." He looks off toward the field, a muscle in his jaw clenching. "You know, I'm not actually all that hungry. I'll catch you later."

I want to call after him, but the words get caught in my throat. By the time I feel like I can actually speak, he's already gone and I've got more customers waiting to be served.

All through halftime, I'm chained to The Meatwagon, feeling horrible about myself and my choices. Reeve didn't deserve my coping methods. He's the one person on the planet who knows the truth, and I just threw it back in his face. I'm anxious and restless and not even able to think about my close encounter with almost-Blake. It's got me so worked up that once halftime is over, I feed the last person in my line and close up shop, dumping another ten pounds or so of perfectly good hamburger meat.

All to look for a man who probably isn't even here anymore.

But as I wade out into the stands, I see Reeve is still here. Sitting by himself, a respectful distance away from the nearest family unit. I'd tease him about it if I wasn't already in hot water.

He catches sight of me as I climb up. To his credit, he doesn't just bolt or tell me to fuck off, but his expression is none too friendly.

"Can't really accuse me of being the stalker here if you’re the one tracking me down," he says tersely.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I don't even know… Sometimes there's this massive disconnect between what I'm thinking and what I actually say."

It's always been that way. The more stressed I am, the more outrageous I become. It's a defense mechanism, full stop, and it keeps all but my closest friends and family off my back.

Reeve shrugs, looking at the field. "We all say stupid shit sometimes. It's fine."

"It's not fine," I insist, "and this wasn't just 'stupid shit.' You've gone out of your way to help me, and I made you feel like you were as bad as him."

He doesn't say anything. I'd almost think he didn't hear me, but for the fact that that telltale muscle in his jaw tenses just a little harder.

All right. Time to be real with him.

"I thought I saw him. Right before you came up."

That gets his attention. His head whips to me so fast and those eyes burn so fiercely into my soul that it almost takes my breath away.

"It wasn't him," I answer his unspoken question. "But the fact that it could've been…"

He's quiet for a long moment, his expression pensive, his gaze unfocused. When it finally returns to me, there's a conviction there that catches me off guard.

"Do you know how to defend yourself?"

I blink at him. "…What?"

"Right now we can't do much about him showing up in a public place. I'm working on it, but I don't have anything yet. What I do have is a way to make sure you're prepared if he corners you somewhere."

There's no sense of teasing in his expression—not that I'd expect him or anybody else to joke about this. But the fact that he's dead fucking serious, that he's turned on a dime from being mad and hurt at my remark to wanting to… what, teach me self defense? It's insane.

"I don't… No, not formally. Mom taught me how to hit a guy in the junk from any angle," a smirk tugs at my lips as I remember, "but that was mostly to fend off handsy Grindr creeps."

He chuckles, but that super serious Reeve look is still focused on me. I can't escape it, and I'm not sure I want to.

"I can teach you. I'm certified to do it."

Of course he is. That body would be wasted on anything less.

God.

Spending more time with Reeve isn't a good idea, even if he's hell-bent on making me feel safe. Maybe especially because he's hell-bent on making me feel safe.

But I want to do this. I want to feel capable no matter where I am. And more than that, I want him to teach me.

"All right. When do we start?"