Page 22 of Wicked Duty
Running on the treadmill. My carefully tailored weight training regimen. Curling up on the couch to unwind with the nature channel. Random photography projects with the camera Maya gifted me for my birthday.
Everything that makes meme—everything that’s given me a sense of normalcy and controlfor the past several weeks—is now over because of the gorgeous dictator standing by the sink.
I can’t even do my usual morning workout without him breathing down my neck. My room’s too cramped for yoga, but if I move out to the living space, the way I usually would, I’ll have Callum’s eyes all over my body.
He’s always watching. Always.
Ostensibly, he’s doing his job. But sometimes, his lingering gaze is a little too much. Too heavy. Toohot.
Those heated glances when he doesn’t think I’m watching flutter through my stomach like an entire swarm of butterflies and get my heart thumping. Hard. Half the time, I can’t figure out if fear drives my reaction or something else entirely.
Something I refuse to acknowledge.
Yesterday, I came out earlier than normal, and he was sitting at the table shirtless.Shirtless.Broad shoulders, sculpted back, lean, muscular biceps, and taut abdomen, all on parade. The apartment smelled of sweat and protein powder, and I nearly scrambled across the distance between us to see if his skin was still damp from a workout.
What a relief that his ringing phone yanked me back to reality. I never would’ve lived that down.
The warden working out in the mornings wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but I’ve hardly seen him do anything since he started guarding me.
Usually, when I don’t have a shift at the diner, he paces by the door to the balcony. Like he’s expecting a sneak attack by hang glider, and he’s got a can of Krav Maga at the ready, waiting to strike.
If he’s not pacing, he’s lounging on my sofa or leaning against a wall, reading from a tablet or the same book over and over. From the title, I can tell he’s not into light reading either.The Russian Civil War to World War II: A Selection of Essays on Military History.
If he’s not reading, he’s crunching on protein bars or eating a salad or something. The man eats like there’s no tomorrow. More than once, I’ve caught him staring into my freezer like he desperately wants a scoop of my artisanal sorbet from Gino’s down the street.
The worstthing he does is at night. After I retreat to my room, when he thinks I’ve fallen asleep, he switches on the televisionand watches period dramas.
Period. Dramas. Mostly British detective shows where the main characters sit around solving mysteries and sipping tea. Full-on Sherlock Holmes-type shit.
Those shows grate on my nerves more than he does.
At work, I do what I can to ignore him. Once I finish my shift, I walk home as quickly as possible and hide behind my bedroom door the minute I’m back.
I’ve taken to watching my trashy reality shows on my laptop from the safety of my bed every night to minimize the amount of time Callum and I spend in the same room.
Forget going out for fresh air. I can barely walk a foot without him tying down my shadow.
I scowl at his back while he takes a long swig from his coffee mug. He spins around, and our eyes lock before mine drop. Mine always drop first.
A naked torso stares back at me.
His navy button-down is open, exposing every inch of his toned abs and chest. The rise and fall of his diaphragm hypnotizes me with each breath.
He’sripped. Of course he is. Darren wouldn’t hire him if he wasn’t in perfect shape for the job.
My gaze trails even lower, following the thin line of hair just below his naval. Heat blooms in my core, searing through every nerve in my body. I bite my lower lip.
And then I sense his eyes lingering too.
Glancing down at myself, a continent-sized cringe curls through my muscles.Dammit!Sleep deprived and groggy or not, I should’ve remembered to slip a robe over my silk tank and shorts pajama set. I might as well have strolled into the kitchen decked out in a teddy.
I cross my arms as embarrassment barrels through me.
On top of that, Callum’s undivided attention ignites a feeling inside me that I thought was gone for good. Or at least, buried too deep for me to remember it ever existed. Though I know his appreciative gaze doesn’t mean anything. I’m only a job to him.
I’m perturbed by intentions that don’t even exist.
And worse still, Callum notices my discomfort. Like now, for instance.
