Page 3 of Mountain Protector

“Call us if you need anything,” Lainey says, squeezing my hand. “Even if it’s just to vent.”

Marcus nods. “And if you don’t like whoever they send, I can recommend some people.”

“Thanks. I’ll be fine.” I straighten my shoulders and force a smile. “It’s probably overkill anyway. Holloway is likely halfway to Mexico by now.”

But as they leave, their matching tattoos and matching smiles making them look like they belong in a perfect little bubble, I can’t shake the feeling that my carefully constructed independence is about to be tested in ways I never anticipated.

I turn to Spike, who blinks slowly from his perch.

“Looks like we’re getting a roommate,” I tell him. “Try not to bite this one.”

* * *

The insistent knockingpulls me from a dream I can’t quite remember. I groan, rolling over to squint at my phone. 7:13 AM.

Who the hell is at my door this early?

Then it hits me—the bodyguard. Dad’s security solution to the Holloway problem.

I drag myself out of bed, not bothering to change out of my thin tank top and tiny sleep shorts. If this security suit wants to drag me into my dad’s paranoia at the crack of dawn, he can deal with my morning appearance.

“Coming,” I call out. I stumble past the living room, nearly tripping over a stack of tattoo magazines I’ve been meaning to organize for months.

My apartment is what real estate agents would generously call “cozy.” What it lacks in space it makes up for in personality. Every inch of wall is covered with artwork—some mine, some from artists I admire. Colorful tapestries hang over the worn sofa I rescued from the curb three years ago. Mismatched furniture crowds the small living area, each piece telling its own story of flea markets and thrift shops.

My drafting table sits by the window, stacked with sketches for upcoming tattoo appointments. Colored pencils spill from their container, bright against the dark wood. It’s chaotic but it’s mine.

“Morning, Spike,” I mumble as I pass his terrarium. My bearded dragon looks at me with his usual judgment, his scaly head tilted as if asking why I’m awake at this ungodly hour.

“Don’t start,” I tell him. “This wasn’t my idea.”

The knocking comes again, more insistent this time.

“I said I’m coming!” I shout. I run a hand through my tangled hair.

It probably looks like a bird’s nest right now. Whatever. The security guy will just have to deal. I unlock the door and pull it open, ready to establish boundaries with Mr. Security.

Instead, the words die in my throat.

I’m expecting a slick guy in a suit with an earpiece—a corporate drone who thinks babysitting a tattoo artist is beneath him.

But the man filling my doorway is nothing like I expected.

He’s tall. Like really tall, with broad shoulders that stretch the limits of his dark gray Henley. No suit, no earpiece. Just worn jeans, sturdy boots, and the kind of build that comes from actual physical work, not just gym sessions.

His dark hair is shorter on the sides but longer on top, just messy enough to look like he ran his hand through it. A shadow of stubble covers his jaw, which could cut glass with its sharpness.

This guy isn’t a bodyguard. He’s a mountain wrapped in man form.

He leans one forearm against my doorframe, his gaze traveling down my body in a way that should feel invasive but somehow doesn’t. When his eyes return to mine, there’s something like approval there, quickly masked by professionalism.

“Um, hi?” I say nervously. “Can I help you?”

“Clay Dover, Hunt Security. Your father hired me.” His voice is deep, with a slight rasp that speaks of early mornings and late nights.

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how thin my tank top is and how his eyes noticed. “You’re early.”

“I’m on time. Seven AM, as arranged.”

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