Page 21 of Fiery Romance

THE BILLIONAIRE’S NANNY

ISLAND

I push aside the shutters,stick my key in the lock and jiggle it around before I hear the click.

Gran’s told me a million times to order a new lock for the salon.

It’s been on my to-do list.

Admittedly, that list could wrap around the world twice, but I’ll get to it. All in due time.

A yawn cracks my jaw and I blink, bleary-eyed into the darkness. Since I have employees now, I don’tneedto open the store early anymore, but I like doing it.

Every morning, I take a deep breath and utter a little prayer of gratitude for the way my life turned out.

The bullied, insecure, fourteen-year-old me wouldn’t havedreamedI’d be standing here right now, in a salon with my name on the walls, vaulted ceilings, classy decorations and a giant man eating an apple in my sofa…

My eyes skid past the figure until my brain processes it.

Everything inside me goes still.

That hulking shadow doesn’t belong.

Alarmed, I jerk my attention back to the outline of impossibly broad shoulders and long, long legs. “Who are you?”

The intruder unfolds himself from the chair and moves forward with a strong yet unhurried gait. The faint rays of the dawn float through the blinds and fall to their death against his rugged jaw.

Our gazes collide.

Mine widen in recognition.

The last time we met, his eyes were like the sky in the middle of summer. Today, they’re a mysterious navy, the color of the ocean during a typhoon. Dangerous. Turbulent. Untameable.

“You!” I gasp.

Goosebumps skitter up my arm when Clay Bolton stops directly in front of me. He’s wearing another too-tight T-shirt and jeans. The dog tags are slightly concealed this time, but I can see the beads hugging the back of his neck and disappearing beneath his collar.

He makes a sound low in his throat. “Good morning.”

I have to tilt my head back so far, it feels like I’m trying to look at fireworks.

“You really should get those locks fixed, Miss Hayes. It took you far too long to get your key to turn. Imagine how dangerous it would have been had you been running from a serial killer and couldn’t open your door.”

My eyes narrow. The shock leaves me.

I whip around, gunning for the counter where, hopefully, I can find something to use to defend myself.

Clay Bolton takes another chomp of his apple as if he couldn’t be bothered with my frantic search.

“Looking for another hair dryer?”

I freeze.

Reality crashes into me like a Mack truck running over a deer.

Given how relaxed he is, he probably has a plan in motion. I glance up and notice the exits being sealed by his goons. This isn’t an impulsive break-in.

This is a set up.

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