Ego.
Theo.
My bodyguard.
My problem.
Because for the past week, I’ve been good.So good.Professional.Polite.Only a few accidental stares.
Okay, maybe more than a few.And maybe once—fine, twice—I imagined what would happen if he just lost control and kissed me like I feel him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking.
And maybe I liked it.
Maybe I want it.
Lord help me.
The blow dryer whines as I flip my head over, fighting the puffiness at the crown and trying not to think about how this stupid Saturday field trip got accomplished with a special thanks to some anonymous donor buying the whole bus fleet for the day.
Gee, wonder who that could’ve been?
Thirty degrees.
An entire Catholic school—which translates into a hundred and ninety-seven four-to-fourteen-year-olds.
One Broadway show.
Three dozen faculty and staff members, including me—dressed for comfort.
I glance down at myself and wince.
Fleece-lined black leggings.
A soft cream blouse tucked just barely into the waistband.
And my favorite cardigan—dark pink, snug, long enough to cover my hips, warm enough to survive the morning chill.
I left a few more buttons than usual on my blouse undone because I was hot.
Blowing my hair dry always makes me sweat, and I didn’t want to be sticky while corralling kids into their assigned seats.
I thought nothing of it.
Until the knock comes.
Twenty minutes early.
“Shit,” I mutter, killing the dryer and giving my hair a quick fluff.I tuck a strand behind my ear, hoping I look passably put together.
I swing open the door.
And immediately regret it.
Theo’s standing there in all his tall, broad-shouldered, bodyguard glory.Black sweatshirt unzipped just enough to show the tailored tee beneath, sleeves pushed back to reveal his tattooed forearms, and that unreadable expression stamped on his face like a warning label.
Our eyes meet.
Then his gaze drops.
