Page 5 of 3 Stolen Kisses

Christ, I’d give Ali anything. I’m a sucker for this girl, and the pearl lovingly tucked in my pants pocket is Exhibit A.

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling?” she says as I lean against the wall next to her, my eyes fixed on the party. Better to watch the dancers than to get lost in her smooth skin, her blue eyes, her dark hair. Ali is addictive that way: once I start looking at her, I can’t stop. “Goose-stepping through the revelry? Checking in with your platoon?”

My cheeks ache when I smile, the muscles stiff and unfamiliar with the movement. Not surprising, really. I only ever smile around Ali.

“I can keep watch from here.”

It’s strangely comfortable after a while, leaning in the corner of the room, listening to baubles jingle and branches rustle whenever Ali shifts. After a long, calm pause, I reach to the side without looking. Brush past spiky green needles and the warm glass of string lights, to find Ali’s hand and knot our fingers together.

The sigh that gusts out of her… she sounds sorelieved.What’s that about? Has she been anxious this whole time, waiting for me to reach for her?

Because Ali grips my hand back, clinging on like I’m her lifeline. And that’s fine with me, even if my chest cracks open.

Charles Wainwright may show her off like a sports car, and these crowds may want one thing from her and nothing else, but while I’m around…

Ali is safe.

Safe and treasured.

Three

Ali

The next morning, I’m hunched over the breakfast bar, chewing on granola and yogurt and scrolling through real estate listings on my laptop. This is my new favorite hobby: picturing myself in each place, and imagining how I’d live there. Deciding what color I’d paint each hypothetical room.

Dad would never approve, of course, but he doesn’t realize that I’ve beenworkingover the last few years while I completed my online English Lit degree. All this time, I’ve been running an editing business from home.

That means I have my own money. I can find an apartment if I like—hell, if I look in the scruffier parts of town, I could even scrounge up the down payment all by myself. This could happen. This could work.

No more deranged holiday parties? No more car bomb checks? No more taking a bodyguard with me everywhere I go, even to the bathrooms at the mall?Hellyeah. I’m in.

But as I open up another apartment listing, tilting my head and peering at the photos of a cramped but cute studio, a wall of heat comes up behind me.

Don’t need to turn around to guess who that is. I could pick Saxon out of a line up with my eyes closed. He just has so muchpresence,like the sheer, crackling masculinity of him sends shock waves through the air.

“What’s that?”

His deep voice is always a thrill. Always makes my toes curl.

“Downtown apartments,” I tell him, spinning my laptop so Saxon can see better over my shoulder. “Look, this one has a little balcony. Cute, right?”

There’s a long, loaded pause behind me. My stomach sinks, even as I keep clicking through the listings, pointing out my favorite features in a chirpy voice. Like if I ignore the sense of doom settling over me like a fine dust, I’ll never have to face it.

Eventually, a big hand rests on my shoulder. “You can’t move out,” Saxon says quietly, and the empathy in his words makes my eyes burn. “Not until you can afford your own security detail. You know your Dad will never pay for two; he likes having you near too much.”

“But if I’m away from here, anonymous—”

“You’ll never be anonymous, Ali Cat.” Our head of security hates breaking this news, it’s clear from his mournful tone. “Your family’s too rich and too famous. Andyou’retoo…”

He trails off. I wait.

“Pretty,” Saxon mutters at last. My cheeks heat, but I’m too miserable right now to enjoy the compliment. “Doesn’t matter where you go in the whole country. Beauty like that doesn’t blend in.”

I scoff, all my insides aching. I’m really trapped here? Forever? Because no book editor can afford a bodyguard, that’s for sure.

“I’m notthatpretty.”

It’s Saxon’s turn to scoff. “You are,” he says shortly, squeezing my shoulder before he lets go. The bar stool next to me squeaks in protest as he settles his bulk down, dragging my abandoned breakfast over the marble counter.

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