19
ASHER
Boring job?
I fucking wish.
Frosts's sister is gorgeous, flirty, sunshiney, gorgeous, smells like fucking cinnamon, wears cute little mismatched socks, and did I mention she'sfucking gorgeous?
And I thought I didn't have a type.
Turns out, flirty bus accident victims really seem to do it for me.
I'll be in close quarters with this off-limits bombshell for weeks. I've never had a problem being strictly professional for bodyguard-type gigs in the past—but when I have to rip my attention away from Heidi's ass for the sixth fucking time as she flips chocolate chip pancakes at her stove, I decide I need a distraction or else I'll start imagining what it would be like to have my face buried in all that sweetness.
Aaand now it's too fucking late.
Where's that distraction, dumbass?
"What happened to your car?" I finally ask.
I noticed it parked in her driveway after I located her remote, charming place. Silas Crane gave me the coordinates yesterday,warning me that I wouldn't be able to see her house until I was right up on it, thanks to the camouflage charms he laid down.
Heidi stops humming along to the soft music playing from the smart speaker tucked away in her kitchen. She glances over her shoulder at me, and again, I wonder how the hell a dish like her came out of the clusterfuck that was the Frost family.
She's petite and pretty with big, sparkly brown eyes and toffee-colored hair that's doing its best to fall out of the bun she put it in. Her face is all soft, feminine symmetry, except for the mesmerizing pink birthmark that I get to appreciate again now that her face is turned to this side.
The evil leggings she's wearing show off her ass and those deliciously thick thighs and hips—and the tank top? I'm not even going to pretend it's not showing off her phenomenal tits.
Those are your client's tits. Keep your eyes and hands to yourself, I remind myself.
"Oh, that?" Heidi shrugs a shoulder, wincing minutely at the motion.
If the angry bruises covering her arms are any indication, the rest of her body is still beaten the hell up from everything she went through yesterday. I know some shifters' accelerated healing plateaus for a while after their body has had to mend severe injuries, but those marks are unacceptable.
"It was just bad timing on the highway. A semitruck kicked up a rock."
"Bullshit," I shake my head. "Rocks crack windshields—they don't bust up side windows until there's barely any glass left."
She goes back to pouring another pancake, blowing a messy strand of hair out of her face. "Huh, then I guess my side window just offed itself on the highway. I'll take it in to get it fixed soon…or, hmm. I guess I should wait until all the chaos dies down."
I see her trying to reach up for another cupboard. Scowling, I block the bruised shifter's path so she'll stop pushing herself.
"What are you getting in here?"
"Maple syrup, please," she yawns.
Fuck, the way she yawns is adorable. But it's just another reminder that she's still recovering.
I grab it and set it on the counter for her. "There. Now, no more reaching for shit."
"So chivalrous," she grins. "It'll be nice to have a tall, capable guy around, putting his body to good use for me."
I give her a stern look, doing my damned best not to notice the tiny tuft of flour she somehow got on her chin. Or the fucking insane urge I suddenly have to lick it off her.
Hands. And. Tongue. To. Yourself.
"That's the end of the flirting," I warn. "I'm officially your bodyguard now."
