Page 42 of The Bodyguard Situation

The swing rocks beneath us, the old chains creaking in rhythm. For a few minutes, we just sit there, sipping and watching the sunset torch the sky in molten golds and purples.

Without thinking, she nudges my knee with her foot, trying to annoy me. I catch her ankle before she can pull it back, my hand curling around the warm skin.

“You’re gonna fuck around and find out.”

She wiggles her toes at me, grinning. “I think I already have.”

God help me, she’s not wrong.

I don’t let her go right away. My thumb brushes the inside of her ankle—a small, thoughtless motion—and suddenly, everything feels sharper, clearer.

“Even if I annoy you, I know you’ll miss me when this is over,” she says.

I look right at her and say low, “I will.”

For a second, the swing keeps rocking, and neither of us says anything.

Then she sits upright, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Careful, Calloway. That almost sounded like feelings. We both know you don’t have those.”

I huff out a laugh, raking a hand through my hair. “Don’t panic, Sleeping Beauty. I’m not proposing.”

“Yet.”

She laughs—really laughs—and I can feel the tension ease between us, even if her words are wrapped with truth.

Whatever this is lingering between us is waiting to capture us both.

“It’s been a long time since I trusted anyone enough to want them close,” I admit.

Harper doesn’t speak right away. She doesn’t tease my words away or press for more information. She just lets my words float around us, like a firefly in the night.

“I like that,” she admits.

A few minutes later, she shifts, snagging the bag of cheese puffs. Without warning, Harper grabs a handful and pelts me with them.

“What the hell?” I duck as neon-orange puffs bounce off my chest and arm, leaving dust in their wake.

“You’re getting way too sentimental,” she says, laughing, her eyes sparkling like the damn sunset. “Consider this an emotional intervention.”

I reach down, grab a rogue puff, and flick it back at her with deadly aim, nailing her square in the forehead.

She gasps like I mortally wounded her. “That’s assault with a cheesy weapon!”

“Self-defense,” I say, deadpan, grabbing more ammo.

Within seconds, cheese puffs are flying back and forth across the porch.

The swing rocks dangerously. Harper’s laughing so hard that she’s crying, trying to dodge and throw at the same time.

Finally, she surrenders, collapsing into my side, breathless and grinning.

“You’re a menace, Calloway,” she says, poking me in the ribs half-heartedly.

I wiggle away from her, not wanting her to realize how fucking ticklish I am.

When I glance at her, I tilt my head, catching her gaze, as something heavier stirs under the playful wreckage of our little war.

“You fucking love it,” I say, voice rough around the edges.

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