Page 157 of Mending Hearts
It isn’t shouted. It doesn’t need to be. There’s command in it, the same authority he uses when calling plays in a loud arena. The same tone that stops teammates mid-argument.
The guards escort her toward a patrol car idling half a block down. A few cameras pivot, trying to catch the angle without leaving their assigned positions. The press cluster murmurs, sensing something but not quite close enough to capture it cleanly.
Vinny leans closer to me, his voice pitched low enough that it won’t carry. “We’re adjusting routes.”
I nod automatically, but my attention isn’t on logistics. It’s on Ollie. He hasn’t stepped back. He hasn’t glanced at me for direction or looked to Vinny for cues.
He stepped forward. Between me and her. And he’s still there now, his shoulders squared, eyes steady as he watches the patrol car pull away.
There’s no fear in his expression. No visible adrenaline spike. Just calculation and resolve.
I turn slightly toward him. “You can stand down.” I shoot him a gentle smile.
He glances at me, and for a split second, the hard edge softens. “I’ll try. She shouldn’t be anywhere near you, though,” he says, unable to keep the bite out of it.
“She wasn’t near me,” I reply calmly. “She was across the street.”
“That’s near enough.” He studies me, something almost amused flickering in his eyes despite the situation. “You’re hovering again.”
“Yeah,” I admit. Because even though this is about me, she’s here, at his work.
His mouth twitches faintly. “I’m fine.”
Vinny opens the SUV door. “Let’s move.”
As we slide into the back seat, I look again through the tinted glass. The street’s already rearranged itself into something that passes for ordinary. Fans still hold up their phones. Reporters angle for footage as if nothing unusual just happened. Traffic inches forward. The patrol car is gone.
It looks contained.
My pulse doesn’t agree.
The SUV merges into traffic, Vinny speaking quietly into his phone’s headset as he adjusts our route while I replay the way she stood—still, composed, convinced she belonged in our line of sight with absolute conviction.
By the time we reach Ollie’s place, that certainty follows me inside.
Later, when the building quiets and the city settles into its early-spring hush, every sound feels amplified. The elevator hum makes me lift my head. The radiator clicks and I track the rhythm. Tires moving through slush below seem closer than they are.
I’ve dealt with this before. Obsessive fans aren’t new. Fame distorts attachment; people build narratives about you that have nothing to do with who you are. I know how this works.
I’m not frightened for myself. What unsettles me is proximity.
The memory of steel catching light. The way she looked at him. The fact that she didn’t appear unhinged today—she looked deliberate.
I lie awake, staring into the dark while Ollie’s breathing evens out beside me. I catalog the sounds and remind myself that security is layered, that restraining orders exist, that she was intercepted before she got close.
My body still refuses to settle, hypervigilant.
Beside me, Ollie shifts and drapes an arm over my waist without waking, instinctively anchoring me. His palm is warm and solid against my stomach, heavy in a way that reassures instead of traps.
I exhale slowly and cover his hand with mine.
If she’s trying to wedge herself into our story, she’s going to find there isn’t room.
Morning comes anyway.
Ollie’s already up when I walk into the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter in gray sweats, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other scrolling through something on his tablet. There’s coffee brewing. Bread in the toaster. A sports channel murmuring quietly from the television mounted in the corner.
It’s ordinary.
