My face is level with hers as I meet her annoyed glare.
“When you’re with me, I do that.”
“Do what?”
“Stay there.” I fix her with a look that makes her frown.
I exit the car and round the hood, making quick work of getting to her door before she can try to open it again herself and really piss me off.
She stares at my offered hand for a beat before taking it and climbing out of the car with Monty cradled in one arm. She blinks at me, the top of her head level with my eyes. She’s five foot eleven, and I still tower over her.
“I can get my own door, you know.”
“You can. But when you’re with me, you won’t.”
Her lips purse like she’s trying to think of a snarky comeback.
“Can I go inside now?” She arches a brow.
I fetch her gym bag from the trunk. “We can now.”
She holds her hand out to take the bag from me, but I keep it held firmly by my side.
“Seriously? You’re coming in?”
“I gave your father my word I would take care of you.”
She stares at me, then snorts. “It gets better.”
I wait for the argument, but she turns and walks toward the entrance, and I follow.
The walls in the entryway have large, framed posters of a guy with blond hair who I recognize from the background checks I did when she started training with him.
“Why don’t you take a picture so you can stare at him more later?” Sinclair smirks as she opens another door.
A state-of-the-art fitness studio is set up inside, with wall-to-wall mirrors. No more posters, thank fuck.
“Hey, Sin.”
The blond guy sweeps her up into a hug and my fist tightens around the handle of her gym bag. I take a seat on a bench against the wall and place her bag next to me, my eyes fixed on the two of them. Sinclair deposits Monty next to me, then rummages in her bag, handing him a treat and taking out her water bottle and towel.
“Won’t be long, baby,” she coos.
She rubs Monty behind his ear, her eyes flicking to me for a brief second before she spins and heads over to where Brad Garrett-Charles is waiting for her.
I used his full name when I spoke to Sinclair because it’s what he uses on his fitness blog where he posts pictures of himself flexing his muscles, much like the ones in the entryway.
And because it makes him sound like a douchebag.
“What’s with him?” Brad asks Sinclair in a low voice the moment she reaches him. “You bringing your boyfriends to my studio now?” He nudges her playfully in her side, and she giggles.
He means the studio his fashion designer mother pays for. Brad acts like he’sitbecause he has a few celebrity clientsthat Mommy sent his way using her connections. I know guys like Brad. It’s my job to know who he is and what makes him tick. The background checks we run on anyone coming into the Beauforts’ lives only tell us so much. I learn everything else by my own observations.
“Ugh, that’s my father’s head of security. He’s just with me while my car gets fixed,” Sinclair answers, not attempting to keep her voice down like Brad.
He looks over at me and jerks his chin in greeting, pulling his shoulders to puff his chest out.
I stare back, leaning forward and bringing my hands together to crack my knuckles. His brow creases before he looks away, returning his attention to Sinclair as he takes her through a warmup.
