Page 74 of The Bodyguard Situation

I smack a hard palm against her ass before I set her down under the shelter of the porch roof of the cabin. “Just did. What will you do about it?”

The sky opens up, rain cascading heavily, drenching everything we just left behind.

“Might have to put that strength to work in other ways, like in the shower and up against a wall,” she mutters, biting her bottom lip.

“You should stop that,” I warn, knowing the little control I have left is dangling on a severed rope. It will inevitably snap, but when?

“What will you do about it?” It falls from her mouth like a challenge.

Her hair is damp, and her eyes are bright with exhilaration. My breath stalls in my chest at the sight of her being so carefree, beautiful, and alive.

“What?” she whispers, holding my gaze.

I step closer without thinking, removing all the space between us. I lean in and whisper in her ear, “You’re breathtaking.”

Her fingers cling to my shirt as she looks up into my eyes. “I’m tired of lines and rules,” she says as rain pounds steadily around us, closing us off from the world.

My fingers brush hers gently, her gaze dropping briefly.

“I’m trying really fucking hard.”

“I know,” she whispers, and a breathless silence settles between us, heavy with anticipation and promise.

I wish I could explain my hesitation, and one day, I’ll be able to fully articulate my fears, but I can’t. Not yet.

Harper smiles, almost shyly, as if she can read my mind, and she doesn’t push me to speak. She never does.

“We should get inside,” she mutters.

My chest tightens as she pulls away. “You’re right.”

She moves toward the door, casting me a final glance full of hope, almost like she can envision our entire future together. Through her silence, I know Harper’s not giving up on me, and, fuck, I’m not giving up on her either. We’ll make it through this storm together.

19

HARPER

The storm outside rages on. Wind-driven rain pounds the cabin’s roof in relentless waves. I step into the bedroom, tugging off my damp shirt and shivering slightly in the cool air. Brody’s in the kitchen, brewing coffee. The rich aroma drifts down the short hall, filling the cabin as The Beatles play on his phone. He’s such an old soul.

I open a random dresser drawer to see what’s inside, temporarily needing something dry and warm to chase away the chill. I stare into the drawer in confusion when I see women’s clothes, folded neatly, in careful stacks. My heart skips as I slowly lift a faded gray tank top. My fingers tremble slightly, and a strange sensation tightens my chest.

I remember Brody’s USMC jogging pants in my dresser drawer, planted to test the fragile, insecure men. The way I feel right now isn’t based on insecurity, but curiosity and a hefty dose of jealousy. I dig further and see a pair of shorts from Bellamore’s summer line, almost six years ago. I know because I designed them.

I glance toward the doorway, my pulse fluttering with uncertainty. I don’t have a right to feel jealous because I’m the one who’s here right now. An unsteady ache nudges me forward, and my thoughts drift to how secluded the cabin is and how special this place seems to be to Brody, and suddenly, I need to know whose clothes these are and why they’re still here.

“Harper?”

I jump, spinning quickly toward Brody’s voice. He stands in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs of coffee, his expression shifting from casual ease to tension as his gaze lands on the cutoff shorts in my hands.

A shadow flickers briefly in his eyes before he carefully adjusts his features. His jaw tightens, and the muscles in his shoulders go rigid. The quiet that follows is broken by the rain pounding against the roof.

“Who do these belong to?” I ask, keeping my tone light, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I feel. I hold up the shorts, my heart hammering at the guarded look settling on his face. “They have great taste.”

Brody remains silent, stepping forward slowly to set both mugs on the bedside table. His movements are measured and cautious, as though he’s preparing for battle.

When he finally meets my eyes again, his voice is low, edged with vulnerability he rarely reveals. “They were Eden’s.”

My breath stalls at the sound of an old friend’s name.

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