“How about admitting how you really feel?”
“Now that’s a lot harder,” she said, an unexpected laugh following the admission.
“So you can play the diva, but you do it in a carefully constructed way?” He turned a bit more, his knee lifting onto the couch between them. She kept noticing how he took up a lot of space. Broad shoulders, stretching the confines of a dark red plaid cotton shirt. Long arms that burst beyond his personal space, often bent at right angles. Long, muscular legs.
If she’d met him in any other context, her first instinct would be to flirt with him. And even now, there was that urge inside her to use her soft, feminine ways to play off his big, brute strength, make him feel manly and distract him from his question. Because she really didn’t want to admit to him that, yeah, a lot of her persona was carefully constructed. Right down to when she played the diva card.
Instead of dropping her hand and running it along the golden hair that dusted his thick, corded forearm, revealed where his shirt sleeve was rolled up, she shoved her fingers into her hair instead. “I don’t know that I’ve thought about it exactly like that. That’s an interesting observation.”
He gave her a bland look that screamed,nice try. “Is it?”
“You’re tough.”
“That’s my job.”
“Awfully sure of yourself for a newbie.”
“Really not that different from my old job.”
“So why’d you leave it?”
“Now who’s asking the tough questions?” One corner of his mouth lifted up. “But I guess that’s fair. I’m asking a lot of you. Trust is a two-way street.”
“I don’t trust anyone. No offense.”
“None taken.” He gave her a curious look. “Not even Hope?”
She paused, then shook her head. It made her an awful friend, but it was the truth.
His gaze turned thoughtful as he set his feet wider on the floor. She hadn’t realized how controlled he was until he started moving restlessly. He shifted next to her, finally leaning forward and lacing his fingers again as he braced his forearms on his knees.
“It’s not—”
“I’m not judging,” he quietly interrupted. His jaw flexed as he looked down at the floor. “My mom died of cancer when I was twelve. My youngest brother was two, just a baby really, and he needed her. It’s not her fault, you know? Of course not. But trust…it’s more of an abstract notion for me. The last time I trusted anything or anyone, I was just a kid.”
She didn’t know what to say.I’m sorryfelt weak and empty, but it was all she had.
He shook his head. “I’m just saying, I get it. I’m a bit of a fatalist.”
“We can form a club.”
He grunted and the corner of his mouth turned up.
“There might be some drama about me having a bodyguard on tour…” she took a deep breath. “With Track. If he notices you, he’s not going to take it well.”
“If he notices me?” Dean’s eyebrows hit the sky. “He’s definitely going to notice me if he gets anywhere close to you.”
“Yeah. That’s not going to go well.”
“If that’s the case, it’s because he’s an asshole.”
She liked that Dean instinctively distrusted Track. That was a refreshing change.
By the end of the afternoon, Liana knew two things for certain about Dean Foster: he didn’t give two shits that she was a celebrity, and he took his job seriously—even if he’d never done it before.
Somehow it made her feel better that he wasn’t doing this because of who she was. If anything, he was doing it in spite of that fact.
When he finally left, heading back into town for the Canada Day fireworks with Hope, Liana pulled out her second phone, her secret one that didn’t contain any identifying information.
