Page 22 of Her Billionaire Bossholes

"Impressive," I admit. "And what made young Charlie aspire to become protection for hire? Watching a lot of action movies, maybe?"

She lets out a gentle laugh, shaking her head slightly but finally looking over at me. "Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" I question, curious to hear whatever she might have to say.

What can I say? I'm captivated.

"This wasn't really my dream." Her confession, for some reason, takes me by surprise.

I lean forward. "And what was your dream?"

Her intense gaze meets mine for a heartbeat before she looks away again. "I used to be a competitive kickboxer."

My eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. Kickboxing? That's not the answer I had expected. I take a moment to process this new information, storing it away in my mental archives. The image of her throwing powerful kicks and landing thunderous punches in the ring seems at odds with the composed and controlled woman sitting beside me.

"You were a kickboxer?" I repeat, unable to conceal his astonishment. "That's incredible. How did you get into that?"

Charlie's lips curve into a bittersweet smile. "It started when I was a teenager, full of restless energy and a desire to prove myself. My parents wanted me to have a good outlet, so they sent me to a local martial arts gym one day and something just clicked. The adrenaline rush, the thrill of combat - it was addictive."

Her words paint vivid pictures in my mind—scenes of her training in dimly lit gyms, hours spent perfecting her technique, and matches where she pushed her limits. I can almost hear the sound of gloves hitting punching bags and feel the adrenaline surging through my own veins. It adds another layer of complexity to her already captivating persona.

"It feels like a lifetime ago," she confesses quietly, a tinge of melancholy in her voice.

"How did you transition from kickboxing to bodyguarding?"

Charlie takes a deep breath, her eyes lingering on something far beyond the horizon. "Well, it wasn't an easy decision. Kickboxing was my entire life, my passion. I lived and breathed it every day. But sometimes life has other plans for us."

She pauses, lost in her memories, before continuing. I injured my knee during one of my matches. Needed surgery," she sighs, eyes falling to her hands. "And that was the end of it."

I reach over and touch her arm, pained by the sorrowful expression in her eye. "That must have been tough," I murmur sympathetically. "To have your dreams derailed by an injury."

Charlie nods, a hint of sadness shadowing her expressive eyes. "It was devastating at first. I had invested so much time and effort into kickboxing, and suddenly it was all taken away from me."

A pang of guilt wells up within me as I realize that my curiosity has inadvertently opened up old wounds.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say softly, not knowing exactly what to say in response. "It must have been difficult."

"Don't be," she whispers, her voice carrying a resilience that I find both inspiring and humbling. "Life has a funny way of guiding us in unexpected directions. And in my case, it led me to become a bodyguard."

I lean back in my seat, still trying to comprehend the magnitude of Charlie's journey. From an aspiring kickboxer to a fierce protector of others. Anyone else would have let a career-killing injury ruin their lives.

As if on cue, Charlie rubs her knee absentmindedly, the action drawing my attention to the faded mark peeking out from beneath the fabric of her pants. I hesitate for a moment before summoning the courage to ask.

"Is there a scar?" She nods, shrugging a little. "Could I see?"

She raises her brow. "What, don't believe me?"

I roll my eyes and shoot back, "No, I just find it hard to believe that there could be an imperfection on your body."

Charlie chuckles, a low, melodious sound that sends a shiver down my spine. "I'm far from perfect, Mr. Harris."

Slowly, she leans forward, her eyes locked onto mine, and grasps the hem of her pant leg.

My mouth goes dry as anticipation builds within me. The room seems to grow hushed, the air tinged with electricity. As she continues to reveal more of her thigh, my heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears.

Finally, the scar comes into full view—a slender mark that winds its way across her skin like a hidden story begging to be told. It is not an ugly scar, but rather a testament to her strength and resilience. I am drawn to it like a moth to flame, my fingers itching with the desire to trace its path.

I reach forward instinctively, wanting to feel the texture beneath my fingertips, to understand the story behind this mark that has become a part of her. But just as my hand hovers inches away from her, Charlie pulls back, a flicker of vulnerability passing through her eyes.

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