Page 135 of The Bodyguard Situation

He offers his hand, and I shake it. It’s not an overly warm gesture, but it’s not meant to be. It’s just a single moment between two men who love the same woman in different but equal ways—and who both understand the weight of that love.

We don’t say much after that because there’s no need. The handshake said the rest, and it was the acknowledgment I needed.

My phone vibrates, and it’s a text from Harper. I read it.

Harper

How much longer?

I smile and meet his eyes. “I have to go. Your sister calls.”

I toss a couple of bills on the table to cover his drink as he finishes the last of it. As I stand, he does, too, but there are no extra words or back slaps or forced sentiment.

As we walk outside, he turns to me. “She’s not easy.”

I glance back with a smirk. “Oh, I’m not afraid of a little trouble.”

He nods once, and his eyes soften. It’s a final stamp of approval that’s full of respect.

I step out into the street, and when the warm evening air hits me, I know summer is among us. The noise of the city rolls over me, but I don’t feel like I’m in the middle of chaos anymore. I haven’t felt like that in over a week.

I return Harper’s text.

Brody

On my way back. Just finished my meeting.

Harper

Great! Come home to me.

Those words settle right behind my ribs. Because that’s what she is to me.

Harper is my home and where my heart lives.

35

HARPER

ONE WEEK LATER

The farther we drive away from the city, the calmer everything becomes—not just around us, but inside me. The skyline fades behind tinted glass, replaced by stretches of highway and the steady rhythm of asphalt under tires. Trees blur past like they’re exhaling, and summer is upon us. The days are longer, the sun is brighter, and it’s one of my favorite seasons, other than fall.

We’re still hours from Sugar Pine Springs, but my excitement is ready to bubble over.

Brody’s behind the wheel of Easton’s vintage, blacked-out Dodge Charger, and the longer we’re in it, the more it feels like he was born to drive this car. It’s all dark chrome, deep engine purr, and intimidation. A “fuck around and find out” car, as Easton has coined it. This isn’t Brody’s sleek black Range Rover with its silent confidence; it’s louder. Bolder. Un-fucking-apologetic.

I glance at him from the passenger seat, sunlight cutting across his sexy face, and raise a brow. “So … when exactly did Easton give you permission to take his firstborn?”

Brody doesn’t miss a beat. “He didn’t.”

I sit up straighter. “You’re telling me youstolehis car again?”

“I preferliberated,” he says, adjusting the rearview mirror with one hand while the other rests casually on the stick shift. “It practically begged me to take it.”

“Brody,” I groan, but chuckle, “Easton’s really going to lose his shit this time.”

“He’ll be fine,” he says, totally unbothered. “He needs to loosen up and go iron his socks.”

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