Page 26 of The Bombshell and the Bodyguard
Several times during our trip here I’d forgotten my own mandate and found myself noticing and appreciating the way her long hair shined and floated on the sea breeze, the hint of color in her skin from being out in the sun, her delicious throaty voice, and the way her remarkable green eyes shifted from emerald to sage to malachite depending on whether the backdrop was the water, the sky, or the tropical foliage.
Fuck.Why did I evenknowthat many synonyms for the color green?
Though I’d never admit it to a living soul, that was Jessica’s fault as well. Inspired by her beautiful writing—and her even more beautiful eyes—I’d attempted some poetry myself back in high school.
Throughout the years I’d continued jotting down lines as they came to me in a small notebook I carried in my back pocket. No one had ever read them—no one ever would. They were just for me.
Though I didn’t understand why, writing poetry helped me make sense of some of the more troubling aspects of my past and my current career.
It also helped me record and remember the joyful moments of beauty and inspiration.
I tried to focus on those moments when memories of the past haunted me.
Though she was unaware of it, our common interest in poetry had always made me feel connected to Jessica in some small way.
At the moment, I felt inspired to write a sonnet about the way her bare, pink-tipped toes curled around the lower rung of my balcony’s railing as she stood on it, about her radiant smile as she gazed out at the view.
Stepping down from her perch, she turnedto me.“I want to go swimming. Would that be okay?”
“Sure. Let’s grab a bite first and then we’ll go down to the beach.”
We walked back inside and went to the kitchen. Jessica ran her fingers lovingly over the Viking Tuscany series stove.
“Ooooh, nice,” she purred as she stroked its shiny surface.
And now I’m jealous of a home appliance.Well, there was a first time for everything.
“Oh, the meals I could cook in here,” she said. “This house is a dream.”
Not in a million years could I have pictured Jessica Bailey here in my private domain, but now it was a reality. And her appreciation of the house I’d built and personally furnished pleased me—probably more than it should have.
I’d never brought a woman here before, or anyone else actually. None of my friends or family even knew where my “private oasis” was, which was why it was the perfect place to hide Jessica.
“You like cooking?” I asked.
“I do. I don’t get to do it as much as I’d like to—hotel living, you know? But I cook whenever I’m home in one of my places. My mom’s an amazing cook.”
“I remember. I used to love staying for dinner at your house.”
“You were there for dinner a lot,” she said.
“Well, when you’re one of four boys, you’ve gotta get your sustenance where you can.”
Of course the food hadn’t been the main attraction at her house. Not that I’d admit that to her.
“My poor parents,” I said. “Their grocery bill must have been astronomical.”
“Speaking of that—are there any groceries here?”
I gestured toward the pantry. “Help yourself.”
Jessica padded over to the door and opened it, making a sound of surprise. “There must be enough food in here for a year—maybe more.”
“We won’t be here nearly that long.”Please God.“Anything look good?”
“Everything. I’m so hungry. You?”
She turned around and grinned at me, and the wordYesscreamed through my brain. Seeing her here in my house, rummaging through my kitchen, filled me with ravenous longing... but also with a sense of satisfaction I hadn’t felt in years—maybeever. Which confused me.
