Why was he just standing there, letting them get more photos of him about to blow his lid?

“This is not the first time we’ve been under public scrutiny,” I said. “And it won’t be the last. And I sure as heck am not going to stop letting you kiss me like that whenever and wherever the mood strikes, so we might as well start getting used to it now.” I don’t know where I was finding the sense to be so reasonable.

“How’s she in bed, Jude?” one of the photographers, who had no sense of self-preservation, called out.

“What did you just say, dickhead?” Jude charged a few steps forward. I didn’t let go of him, so he had to drag me right along.

“Jude, stop. Think!” I yelled, realizing he’d only gotten stronger in the weeks of summer training. “Stop and think!”

My body couldn’t stop him, but my words could. Coming to an abrupt stop, Jude glanced at me. It was the shortest of looks, but his whole face morphed in that silent exchange. He closed his eyes and took in a few breaths before looking back at the photographers.

Giving his shoulders an anger-defusing shake, he slid his phone from his pocket. Holding it up, Jude took a picture. “There. I’ve got all your faces on my camera now,” he said, his voice controlled. Just barely. “If I see or hear about any one of those pictures being printed, I’ll come after each and every one of you.” Jude pointed his finger at the photographer who’d been stupid enough to ask about my skills in the sack. “Starting with you.”

After they’d picked their jaws up from the ground, the photographers started to disperse. One chanced snapping one more, but rethought that when murder flashed over Jude’s face. Only when the last one was out of sight did Jude’s shoulders relax. Turning around, he had the good grace to at least look sheepish.

“Sorry?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

I nudged him, proud of his restraint. “If I had a quarter for every time I’ve said—no, I’ve shouted—‘Jude!’ and, ‘Stop!’ in the same breath, I’d be a rich woman.”

Picking my bags back up, he hung an arm over me. “You already are a rich woman,” he said, making my stomach drop. I wasn’t a rich woman. He was rich.

“And if I had a quarter for actually listening to you when you’ve yelled the words ‘Jude!’ and ‘Stop!’ in the same breath . . .” He grinned down at me. “I’d be middle-class.”

“What do you think the owner would say if he knew what we’d just done on the hood of his new truck?” I said as Jude steered me around the side of it.

“He’d probably ask for a repeat performance.”

I laughed. “Probably. Only horny pervs drive trucks like these.”

Grabbing the handle, Jude swung the door open. “I’m with you on the horny part, but could we drop the perv part? I don’t really want my fiancée to think of me as a pervert.”

My mouth dropped open as Jude situated my bags in the backseat. “This is yours? When did you get it? Where’s your old truck?” I couldn’t stop the flow of questions.

Holding out his hand for me, he helped me into the truck. I had to leap to get inside.

“This is mine. I got it a couple days ago. And my old truck is going to be scrapped as soon as possible.” Shutting the door behind me, he jogged around the front and crawled into the driver’s seat. Even Jude in all his gigantor size had to jump to get inside.

When he turned the key over, the engine fired to life. It was so loud, it vibrated the cab. “Now, this is a truck we could get it on in,” he said, eyeing the second-row seat, where there was more than enough space for “getting it on.”

“We didn’t have any problem in your old truck,” I muttered, clicking my seat belt into place.

Jude stopped in the middle of reversing out of the spot, eyeing the empty middle seat, then looking at where I sat at the end of the bench. “You hated that old rust bucket,” he said, visibly hurt I wasn’t sitting right next to him like I normally did.

Unfastening my belt, I scooted over until I was pressed against him. Jude’s body running the length of mine was the only thing familiar about this truck. “It was a love/hate relationship,” I said defensively. “That was more love than hate.”

Clearly appeased, he hung his arm over my shoulders and continued out of the parking spot. “Well, I’ve still got the beater, so you can say your good-byes before he goes off to truck heaven.”

“I’m not ready for him to go to truck heaven.” I pouted, wondering why I was so upset. Jude was right: I wasn’t his old truck’s biggest fan. But now, seeing what it had been replaced with—something shiny and new—made me anxious for reasons I didn’t want to admit to myself.

“I got you a little present,” Jude said. “It’s in the glove box.”

Once he was free and clear of the garage, he gunned it. You would have thought that truck had the engine of an Indy car from the way it took off.

“My just-because present?”

“Just because I love you,” he said, clearly eager for me to open it.

I was nervous, even more so after seeing the new truck, the cost of which I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

When I opened the glove box, a robin’s-egg-blue box with a white bow toppled out. I picked it up, already close to hyperventilating. I’d never received a gift in the blue-and-white box, but it was iconic. Every girl knew what store it came from and what was inside. It was a female rite of passage to identify this particular shade of robin’s-egg blue.