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The market was lively, music from a local guitarist floating over the chatter. The air smelled of kettle corn and peaches, voices carrying over the rows of colorful tents. Claire stood beside Owen at a produce booth, half listening as a farmer launched into the pros and cons of two varieties of heirloom tomatoes. Out of habit, her gaze drifted toward the next row of stalls.
Maisie lingered at a bracelet stand, turning a leather band over in her fingers. Her hair caught in the breeze, falling over her face as she studied the display. Claire smiled, thinking how quickly she was growing up; too quickly, maybe, though Owen would never admit that out loud.
That’s when she noticed him. A boy, sixteen, maybe, with messy hair and a cocky grin sauntered up, his stride just a little too confident for someone hanging around a farmer’s market on a Saturday morning. Claire raised a brow. Oh no.
“You’d look good in that,” he said, voice pitched low with forced charm, “Better than half the girls I see.”
Maisie blinked, caught off guard. She opened her mouth, probably to give one of her dry, cutting responses, but Claire didn’t hear it because Owen had already noticed. His whole posture changed. Shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes narrowing. It was the same look he wore when some dinosaur tried testing the fences, and Claire knew immediately where this was headed. She pressed her hand against his arm, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“Don’t,” she murmured, “They’re just talking.”
“That’s not just talking,” Owen muttered, gaze locked on the boy.
Claire smothered a grin. God, he was predictable. That fierce, protective streak of his always barreled out with zero warning. She should probably be concerned, should probably rein him in, but honestly? It was hilarious watching him wind himself up over a teenager with bad hair and worse pickup lines.
Then the boy leaned closer to Maisie, “You’d look way cooler holding onto me than holding that bracelet.”
Claire’s amusement caught in her throat. Oh, this kid had no idea. She tightened her hand on Owen’s arm, but it was too late. He was already gone, moving through the crowd like a freight train on a mission. Claire let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she followed.
Before the words even finished leaving the boy’s mouth, Owen was there. He slid in like a wall of muscle and authority, planting himself squarely between Maisie and the kid.
His voice was calm, but his eyes burned with something that made the boy falter, “She’s thirteen.”
The boy froze, blinking rapidly.
“And no,” Owen went on, voice tightening, “She’s not holding onto you. Not now, not when she’s fifteen, not when she’s thirty: not ever.”
“Dad,” Maisie hissed, cheeks blazing as she tried to tug him back, “Please stop—”
But Owen wasn’t done. His jaw set, “She’s not gonna ride your motorcycle either, so move along, champ.”
The boy stammered, muttered something about “just being nice,” and bolted, nearly tripping over a basket of apples in his hurry to get away.
Maisie groaned, covering her face with both hands, “Oh. My. God. I’m literally never coming here again.”
Owen stood tall, chest puffed like he’d just won a territorial battle. Claire caught up, lips twitching as she watched him scan the crowd for any other would-be threats. His protectiveness was absurd, over the top, and so very him.
“You lasted what, two seconds,” she teased, laughter bubbling through.
“He was hitting on her,” Owen shot back, deadly serious.
Claire shook her head, grinning, “And you scared him so bad he might never eat fruit again. Congratulations, Raptor Dad.”
Maisie peeked through her fingers, groaned louder, and stomped ahead, muttering something about disowning them both, “So. Fucking. Embarrassing.”
Claire looped her arm through Owen’s, still chuckling as they followed at a safer distance, “Honestly? Best farmer’s market trip I’ve ever had.”
Owen huffed, still bristling, “Glad one of us is enjoying this.”
“Oh, I am,” Claire said, amusement twinkling in her eyes, “Trust me, I am.”
By the time they got home, Maisie had stomped upstairs with all the theatrics of a teenager betrayed. Her bedroom door slammed, rattling the frame.
Owen set the grocery bags on the counter a little harder than necessary, still bristling, “He was twice her age and did you hear that line? ‘Holding onto me’? What a tool.”
Claire leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him pace, “You do know those are the kinda lines you used back on women back on the island.”
Owen froze mid-step, turning toward her with a look that landed somewhere between insulted and defensive, “I had way better lines,” he said, jabbing a finger in her direction, “And as I seem to recall, those lines worked on you.”
Claire’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it, “Oh, please I tolerated them at best.”
His mouth dropped open, clearly wounded, “You’re cruel.”
She smirked, moving further into the kitchen, “If memory serves, it wasn’t your bad flirting that got my attention. It was the fact that you weren’t afraid of me when no one else would look me in the eye.
Her voice softened as she set the peach on the counter, gaze catching his, “You never tried to cut me down or compete with me, you stood beside me. You carried yourself with this quiet authority, like you knew who you were and didn’t need to prove it. Even when everything was falling apart, you stayed steady. Strong without being overbearing.”
She gave him a small, almost shy smile, “That’s what caught my attention. Not the lines, not the smirk: the way you stood your ground, calm in the face of danger and the way you made room for me to stand there too.”
“You make it easy to,” he replied, voice dropping, a grin tugging at his mouth, “And maybe I’ve got a thing for strong women who don’t take crap from anybody.”
Claire arched a brow, “Maybe?”
“Fine.” He took a slow step closer, eyes locked on hers, “Definitely. You’re gorgeous, brilliant, terrifying when you want to be, and you know what that does to me.” His tone went playful, teasing, like he couldn’t resist pushing just a little, “Honestly, I’m just trying not to lose it when you look at me like that.”
Her cheeks warmed despite herself, “Like what?”
He leaned in, his hand brushing the counter beside hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, “Like I’m worth standing next to. Like I’m not just some guy with a few bad lines, and for the record—” his grin widened—“Those lines did work. You wouldn’t still be here otherwise.”
Claire laughed, shaking her head, but he caught the way her lips curved, “You’re impossible.”
“Mm,” Owen murmured, tilting in closer until his mouth hovered just above hers, “Impossibly yours.”
She didn’t bother denying it. Instead, she closed the space, kissing him with a smile.
He deepened it almost immediately, one hand sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushed hers with every word, “Still think my lines don’t work?”
Claire rolled her eyes, but her hands curled into his shirt, holding him in place, “Shut up and kiss me Grady.”
Owen’s grin was quick and wolfish, but he didn’t argue. He closed the space again, kissing her harder this time: hungry, insistent, like he was proving a point with every press of his mouth against hers. Claire melted into him despite herself, fingers tightening in his shirt, pulling him closer.
“Could you two be any more disgusting,” came Maisie’s voice, shouted from her room upstairs, muffled but still plenty loud.
Claire broke the kiss with a laugh, dropping her forehead to Owen’s chest, “Oh my god.”
Owen groaned, running a hand down his face, “Unbelievable. I scare off some punk trying to hit on her, and we’re the ones who are disgusting?”
Claire chuckled, sliding her hands down his chest before stepping back to grab one of the grocery bags, “Welcome to parenthood, Owen. We embarrass her just by existing.”
Owen huffed, grabbing an apple out of the bag and tossing it from hand to hand, “Guess I’ll just have to lean into it, then. If I’m already embarrassing, might as well be world-class at it.”
Claire laughed softly, tugging his shirt to pull him down into another kiss, “Oh, stop. You’ll survive her dramatics and if it makes you feel any better…” Her smile turned sly, “I don’t think you’re disgusting.”
Owen perked up at that, a slow grin spreading across his face, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she murmured, kissing him again, just long enough to draw out another groan from upstairs.
Owen muttered, “At this rate, she’s gonna need noise-cancelling headphones.”
Claire chuckled, resting her head against his chest, “Or we could just give her more to complain about.”
He grinned, tugging her closer, “Best idea you’ve had all day.”