Page 23 of Smooth Sailing

“Side benie of that, she takes him out, it makes his operation vulnerable,” he continued. “We can then neutralize it before they fuck up anyone else’s life. So she needs to stay healthy because she just needs to stay healthy. But also so she can testify and get his ass in a cage.”

“As you obviously know, we share the same goal,” I told him.

“Yeah, we know that,” he replied.

“Though, I’m not sure what you can do to help,” I said.

He blinked.

Then he stared hard at me.

After that, his brown eyes swept me top to toe. Twice.

I knew what he saw.

I was in cropped, white jeans, muted gold pumps and a lightweight, pink, man-tailored shirt. I was also carrying a sleek, rose-leather tote.

Further, I was five six. I was an ice cream, frozen custard, pie and cookie aficionado, and I wore the evidence of that on my ass (also my tits, and okay, maybe my thighs and belly too).

Assisting that situation, I didn’t adhere to taco Tuesdays. Tacos for me were good any day of the week. And my stylist (who happened to have a chair in the salon in the forecourt of that very complex) was a master with the balayage, and as such, my dark hair had golden highlights added by the hand of an artist. But it was my hand that put the perfect, soft, beachy waves in the long tresses.

What could I say?

I could do good hair.

I also was a dab hand with makeup.

Neither were hobbies of mine.

Both were leftovers of being the daughter of a father who drilled into me that appearances meant everything, and furthermore, I reflected on him, and that reflection better be positive, so I got good at doing both.

Now, it was just habit.

What I did not look like was a badass bodyguard or kickass commando.

He didn’t look like those either.

He looked exactly like what he was, a biker (though, without the leather jacket or vest I saw club members wear on the streets of Phoenix, which was a biker haven, considering you could ride all year).

But seeing as he had to be at least six three, and the impressive bulges at his biceps and the sinews and distended veins on his forearms were clearly not just for show, I suspected he was far from a pushover.

Same with the other three dudes (though, man-bun guy appeared a little older, but not by much, and I wasn’t fooled by his mini beer belly for a second).

“Not sure why you put yourself in this, Diana,” Hugger spoke again, and I returned my attention to him when he did, and not only because he was talking.

Oh no.

It was because he said my name.

And it wasn’t because he knew my name, which was a little disconcerting, seeing as I hadn’t introduced myself.

It was that in his deep, masculine, attractive voice he said my name, and I was a little freaked I had a physical response to him doing it.

A highly pleasant one.

He was not at all my type.

So what was that?

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