Page 7 of Protector

The key is staying focused, but when I look over at her statement, I catch the sweetest little smirk on her face. And then it hits me. “You freaking Googled that on your phone, didn’t you?”

“I did.” She laughs. “But only because I was fascinated, and it’s really beautiful.”

I ignore the compliment and ask, “You have any?”

“Tattoos? Yeah… I’m sure you’ll see it at some point.”

Did she just wink at me? Please let that be the sun in her eyes. I keep my gaze forward and want to kick my ass for even asking the question.

“You know, I really admire you,” I hear her say, but I just grip the wheel tighter. “What you’ve done. And I thank you for your service, by the way.”

“Thanks. But you don’t really know anything about me.”

“Not true.” She holds up her phone and grins.

“Texting Catherine?”

“Oh, you’re quick.”

“And you’re a thorough young lady.”

She scoffs and turns her body so she’s facing forward. “It’s that next exit.”

I shouldn’t care, but the change in her tone doesn’t sit well in my gut. “Did I say something wrong?”

Silence.

Shit.

She instead directs me to her mother’s house in a Hidden Hills neighborhood of Los Angeles. We drive through the security gate, and I pull through the roundabout and stop my truck, which is probably a sight to see if anyone is looking out the window.

She doesn’t exit the truck, so I turn to her. I’m not that old and out of it, but sometimes I forget what’s PC and who likes to be called what, but for fuck’s sake, did I just sayyoung lady? “I’m sorry if I offended you. A grown woman shouldn’t be called ‘young lady.’”

“No shit. Not to mention I don’t consider myself a”—she turns her body toward me and holds her fingers up into air quotes—“ladyat all.” The rough edge to her voice makes me almost believe her. Either way, it’s just a reminder that I don’t really know anything about her. Maybe her public persona is a departure from whom she really is.

“Okay…” is all I can think to say.

“Plus, you don’t look old enough to use that phrase on anyone, Brooks.”

It’s the second time she’s said my name, and for the second time, it affects me. I try to shake it off. “I’m not,” I say without thinking.

“What are you, mid-forties?” She giggles, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s joking or because she really thinks I’m that old.

“Thanks. No, I’m thirty-eight.”

“Darn.”

“What?” I shoot her wide-eyes.

“Nothing.” She shakes her head, grabs her bag, then says, “I was just wondering.”

“Speaking of ourobviousage difference… You’re going to need to come up with a reason for my existence. As I said, I’m not going to blend into the background where I can’t protect you. At the same time, I agree, for now, we probably don’t want everyone knowing you’ve got a bodyguard.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I could say you’re my…much older boyfriend.” Her grin tells me she’s having too much fun with this.

“You do realize we’re trying to protect you from someone who may want to harm you?” My voice is deep, serious. I can’t let my guard down because some beautiful and charming woman is trying to get the best of me.

“Of course. That’s why I hired you.” She opens the door and slips out.

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