Page 41 of Protecting Mr. Fine

I needed a distraction.

Better yet, I needed things to go back to normal with my close protection officer.

Which was why, when Bear poked his head into the sunroom after the sun finished slipping behind the mountains across the water, his eyes serious and wary and tentatively hopeful, and said, “Hey, I, ah… had an idea for dinner.” I set my guitar on the stand and stood.

“Yeah, okay. I’m easy.” Hopefully, he didn’t notice me wince at the embarrassing word choice.

“Hope you like horseradish.” Bear turned and moved toward the kitchen. My eyes flicked down to his ass out of habit.

He had clearly just showered because his hair was wet, and he was wearing different clothes than he’d had on earlier. Now, he was dressed in soft sweatpants—the kind that were loose at the hem and so thin from washing that the fabric draped over… everything… in a way that highlighted his assets rather than concealing them.

Goddamn.

I blinked and followed the lines of his body up to his broad shoulders, which pulled the smooth cotton of his T-shirt taut across his back. The shirt was new with a still-bright list of tour cities on it.

Halifax

Montreal

Toronto

Milwaukee

Detroit

Chicago

Minneapolis…

I remembered each city we’d visited late last year. Memories of shows came flooding through my mind, moments when Bear had pressed his large hand against my lower back to usher me through tunnels and down hallways. It had been during that portion of the tour that we’d truly broken the ice between us. Once someone had seen the ugly, backstage side of you, it was hard to keep them at arm’s length.

It had started with a few small moments.

In Halifax, he’d accidentally walked in on me while my voice coach was making me sing a silly song that repeated the line “Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers” over and over at ascending scale and speed. In addition to sounding ridiculous, I was also shirtless with a giant orange warming muff around my throat.

Somehow, he’d managed to say, “Micki is limiting the VIP meet and greet to fifteen minutes,” with a neutral expression.

In Toronto, I’d tripped in front of hundreds of people. Thankfully, Bear—or had I still called him Ryan then? He’d been “Bear” to me so long I couldn’t remember anymore—had been holding my elbow, so he kept me from face-planting. Then he’d immediately said in a voice loud enough to carry, “Sorry, Mr. Barlo. Didn’t mean to bump you.”

In Detroit, I’d been so tired I’d forgotten the name of my own hometown. “Where are you from in Georgia?” the hairstylist hadasked, making friendly conversation. I’d stared at her in the mirror. “I have family in Valdosta. Anywhere near there?” she’d prodded.

“Barlo,” Bear had answered. I’d turned to face him with a look of confusion. Why was he calling me by my last name? “Georgia,” he added. “Barlo, Georgia. It’s northwest of Valdosta.”

“Oh, right,” I’d said stupidly. “Yes. Barlo. Like my name.”

The stylist had tilted her head. “Is the town named after your people? They must have been there for generations.”

I couldn’t for the life of me process what she was asking. “Other way around,” Bear had explained. “He picked his stage name to honor his hometown. Hey, ah… Sylvie. Would you mind giving us a minute? I need to go over some security details and need privacy.”

“Sure thing, hon.”

She’d stepped out, and Bear had come over, crouched down in front of me, and put his hands on the arms of my chair. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

He frowned and reached up to press the back of his fingers against my forehead. “You don’t seem fine. You seem out of it.”

I brushed his hand away and shook my head, feeling it swim a little. “Totally fine. Promise. I’ll be glad to get to Chicago and catch up on sleep before the next show.”

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