Page 2 of A Bride for the Bodyguard

I shake my head. “Sorry, boss,” I tell him. “I’m supposed to leave for vacation tomorrow.”

In the high-stakes world of Hunt Security, we operate on a strict rotation—two months in the thick of it, one month to breathe. It’s a rhythm that keeps us sharp, keeps us sane.

Rich is usually good about honoring that system. He understands that even the toughest soldiers need time to recharge their batteries. The thought of him veering from this routine makes me uneasy.

“I know,” he says simply. “But I need someone I can trust. I’m willing to triple your usual fee.”

Despite myself, curiosity piques. “Go on.”

He sighs, running a hand through his silver hair. “Got a call from an old buddy down in Texas last night. There’s a DEA informant named Diego Alvarez hiding out in your hometown.”

My eyebrows shoot up at this revelation. “In Barton Beach?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

Barton Beach is smaller than most would expect for Texas. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone, and crime is usually limited to jaywalking or late library book returns. The thought that a DEA witness would be hiding out there seems odd.

But Rich nods his head in confirmation. “I’m sure.” He rubs his temples as if the thought of it all gives him a headache. “They’re looking to beef up Diego’s security detail. Apparently, they have a mole on their hands. They want to draft an outsider. And because I owe a debt to my buddy, I’m sending you.”

Great.

“Good news is that it won’t be as round-the-clock as the Crowley gig was,” Rich continues. “But expect some late nights. And you’ll have to keep a low profile.”

I snort. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

Rich grins at me, then drops the bombshell: “Get yourself a wife.”

What the fuck?

“A wife?” I echo. “For what?”

“For cover. Everyone knows you in the security world. The moment you step foot in Barton Beach, it’s like waving a red flag. Suspicions will be raised. But if you come back as a married man?” He pauses for effect before continuing. “They’ll just assume you’ve hung up your boots and decided to settle down.”

I groan internally at the absurdity of it all.

“Even if I agree to take this job, where the hell am I supposed to find a wife on such short notice?” I ask.

Rich chuckles heartily at my expense. “You’re a resourceful guy, Jack Barton. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Then he claps me on the shoulder. “I’ve got to head out. I’ll contact you in a day or two to sort out payment. Job starts on Monday.”

“I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“You will,” he calls over his shoulder, leaving me alone in the rubble, my mind reeling.

I rub the back of my neck, a wave of uncertainty washing over me.

I’ve never really been the domestic type. My life has been about action, unpredictability, and the thrill of the chase. I’ve dated, sure. But no woman has ever held my interest long enough for me to consider a future with her.

The women attracted to my lifestyle usually can’t handle the reality of it. And those who can don’t ignite that spark in me—the kind that makes you want to risk everything.

What I need is someone feisty. Someone who won’t put up with my bullshit but will let me take care of her when it counts. A woman who’s just as comfortable in a cocktail dress as she is in jeans and boots.

She needs to understand what I do—really get it—not just tolerate it because she loves me. She needs to accept that danger is part of the package, not something she can change or control.

I have no idea where I can find someone like that in the next twenty-four hours.

Which basically means I’m screwed.

“Excuse me!”

A woman’s voice rings out from behind me, and I spin around toward the sound.

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