Page 5 of The Price of Forever

The front door of the strip club opened and two girls strode out, laughing. A platinum blonde—not my charge. And the other? I squinted, trying to see through the murky shadows of the sidewalk. Dark blonde hair pulled into a sleek top knot. A black leather jacket, halfway zipped, with dark leggings and black boots. It was the boots that tipped me off before I made out her face. Jordan. They started walking along the sidewalk but paused a moment later, gesturing toward the bar.

I groaned inwardly as they crossed the street and headed this way. Spending even more time in this bar was not the goal, and now this opened me up to being spotted in another locale she frequented. I sighed and flagged the bartender for another root beer.

From my seat, I could see the main doors. The girls came in, attracting plenty of looks. They weren’t dressed provocatively by any means, but I’d quickly found in the past three days that Jordan attracted looks wherever she went. Whatever she did. She had a magnetism I’d personally felt when she almost gave me a third-degree burn at the coffee shop. And being the subject of attention, wanted or otherwise, was yet another security risk.

But as far as I could see, she couldn’t help it. The woman was perfection in physical form. I hadn’t seen the inside of that club yet or what she did in there, but there was something about her that satisfied a deep, primal urge for aesthetics. Her gray-blue eyes had nearly rendered me mute earlier that week at the coffee shop. Judging from the way her co-workers and customers interacted with her, she had a little extra sparkle for everyone. And hell, if she wasn’t the client’s sister, I’d try to find out if she had a little sparkle for me, too.

But there was nothing more off-limits than a client. Especially one ten years my junior.

Besides, I didn’t go sparkle hunting anymore. I was an unfeeling monster who couldn’t even relate to his former self, since losing my fiancée eight years ago.

I didn’t let people in. I observed them. I protected them. And I went on with my life.

“We’re gonna need two gin and tonics.” The blonde’s order rang above the din as she leaned over the counter to speak to the bartender. Jordan pressed in at her side, nodding along. About nine people separated us. I prayed that would be enough to blend into the faceless mass of people inside the bar. I snuck a glance at Jordan just as her gray gaze snapped my way.

Our gazes connected in a gut punch.

Fuck. Clients weren’t supposed to make my balls do that scrunchy thing.

I pulled out my phone and tried to look busy. Bored as fuck. Whatever drunk people did at bars when they were trying to zone out. I swiped into my messages and looked at the last texts I’d sent Damian: Visual confirmation at her second workplace, I’ll stick around until she leaves and heads home. Their plan was to slowly reconnect with her before launching the big question: would she accept a full-time bodyguard, or any amount of protection, while they navigated this media shitstorm and SEC prosecution?

From the edges of my spatial awareness, I felt someone approaching. I swiped my phone off and sipped my drink. Jordan was at my side a moment later, wedged between me and the occupied barstool to my left.

“Why do I keep seeing you?” Her voice came out low, almost lethal. This wasn’t a come-on. Or maybe it was, and I was just out of the game.

I took an extra sip before responding. I cleared my throat. “Because you have eyes.”

Her chin dipped, something equal parts furious and amused circling in her expression. “Hard-hitting dad joke there. Are you following me?”

I worked my jaw back and forth as I mulled over my response. I hadn’t expected her to confront me like this. Hell, I hadn’t even thought she’d connected the dots. But she wasn’t supposed to come inside this bar. I’d backed myself into this corner, in all possible senses.

“You’ve been to the coffee shop every morning this week.”

“Is that a crime?” I asked, because something inside me was begging to poke her a little. “I like the shop. It’s cute.” I liked the view of her from this close. She was the same as Barista Jordan, but with a full face of makeup and a brazen attitude that couldn’t give a fuck about customer satisfaction.

She snorted. “Cute.” But she softened. Call something cute to a woman’s face and it’ll get them every time. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here. Right outside where my other job is. Absolutely nowhere near that cute little coffeeshop.”

I could have blamed it on coincidence. But that would never fly for the remaining portion of my security risk assessment. She’d surely spot me again. I needed to fess up. Immediately.

“You’re right. I’m actually a close protection officer.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing following me?”

“I’ve been tasked with assessing your security risks.”

Her eyes shrank to slits then, and I could see the gears turning in her head. “That sounds like some made-up bullshit.”

I reached for my wallet, thumbing through the cash and credit cards until I found the business card I needed. The Showalter Agency. I’d worked for them in Louisville, where I’d crossed paths with Trace. I wasn’t with them anymore, since my goal was to start my own company now, but it had my name on it, my credentials, and it looked professional.

She plucked it out of my fingers, holding it between two magenta-polished nails as she studied it. “Seven. Not Sven.”

“Correct.”

“Well, I think you’ve got the wrong girl.” She slipped the business card into the pocket of her leather coat. “I didn’t hire you for a security assessment, so you can move along now.”

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