“Self-defense.” He nods toward the open yard. “Just in case.”
I raise a brow. “You think I can’t handle myself?”
“I think you’re brave. Brave gets people killed without training.” He heads toward the kitchen door. “Shower. Change. Meet me in the yard in twenty.”
I watch him disappear inside.
Then I exhale. I’m shaky and furious at myself for being turned on.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in the yard, wearing borrowed sweats that smell like him and a tank top I found in his dresser. He’s waiting, shirtless again, sweatpants low on his hips, muscles gleaming in the morning sun.
He looks at me. Eyes darken.
“Ready?” he asks.
I lift my chin. “Bring it.”
He steps behind me to adjust my stance, his hands on my hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows above my waistband. “Feet wider. Knees soft.”
His chest brushes my back. Breath hot on my neck.
“Like this?” I ask, voice breathy.
“Better.” His hands linger. Slide up my sides, correcting my posture. Every touch is slow. Deliberate. Lingering too long.
I turn my head slightly. Our faces are inches apart.
“You’re very hands-on. I’m not sure that’s professional bodyguard behavior,” I tease.
His grip tightens. “You’re making it very hard to stay professional.”
I smile. “Good.”
He growls—low, rough—and steps back.
But the damage is done.
Chapter five
Aaron
The self-defense session ends with both of us breathing hard and pretending the touches didn’t mean anything.
Megan’s cheeks are flushed pink, curls sticking to her temples in damp ringlets, green eyes bright with adrenaline and something far more dangerous. Something that makes my blood run hotter every time she looks at me. I step back first, because if I don’t, I’m going to do something stupid like pin her against the porch railing and kiss her until she forgets her own name.
“Shower,” I say, voice rougher than I want it to be. “We’ve got work.”
She nods, still catching her breath, but the small, knowing smile she gives me is pure trouble. “Yes, sir.”
I turn away before I can respond to that. The word “sir” lands like a spark on dry grass.
By the time she comes back out, hair damp and wearing one of my old gray T-shirts, I’ve already pulled the kitchen table into a makeshift war room. Laptop open, burner phone on its charger, stack of printed records Mae quietly faxed over at 0600. Coffeeis brewing, and I pour two cups, black for me, two sugars and a splash of cream for her. I noticed how she took it yesterday when she raided my cupboard. I don’t know why I remembered. I shouldn’t have.
She stops in the doorway, eyeing the setup.
“You’ve been busy.”
“I know how important this is to you.” I slide her mug across the island. My fingers brush hers when she takes it. Neither of us pulls away fast enough. The touch lingers, sending a jolt straight up my arm. “Figured we’d start digging while we wait for Gray to clear the next move.”
