“Bodyguards.”
“Semantics.”
He laughs, and it is an annoyingly pleasant sound. “You know, most people in your situation would be grateful for the protection.”
“Most people in my situation did not ask to be in this situation.” I stare out the window at the city traffic. “I just want to take photos and live my life. Instead, I’m famous for being related to someone famous, and all because some psycho outed me.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know that, but it’s my reality.” I turn to look at him. “Hiring you does not change that. It only adds another person who gets paid to watch me like I’m a child.”
Something shifts in his expression. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a child.”
I scoff. “You’ve known me for twenty minutes.”
“That’s long enough to know you’re smart, defensive as hell, and probably planning at least ten different ways to make my life difficult.”
“Only ten? Damn, my skills are getting weak.”
“See? We’re bonding already.” He smiles.
“Don’t mistake my hostility for bonding, dimples.”
“Dimples?” He glances at me, his eyebrow raised.
Shit, this guy is good. “Nothing. Watch the road. You don’t want to kill me on your first day.”
I can see his answering grin in my periphery.
By the time we pull up to my apartment building, I have run through five different ways to ditch him, but unfortunately none of them will work. Ace has probably already briefed him on all my usual escape tactics.
Rhodes parks and comes around to my door before I can open it myself.
“I can open my own door.”
“I know, but my mother raised me right.” He offers me his hand to help me out.
I ignore it and climb out on my own. I’m halfway to the entrance when I realize he is checking his phone, scanning the area, and watching the street all at once. For someone who jokes around, he is actively paying attention.
“You coming?” I call back.
“Right behind you.”
The elevator ride to my floor is silent, which is somehow worse than his constant talking. I can feel him taking note of everything—the security cameras, the key card access, the emergency exits. When we reach my door, I expect he’ll insist on going in first.
“Let me,” he says, moving in front of me.
“It’s my apartment. I think I can handle opening my own door.”
“Humor me.”
Rolling my eyes, I unlock it and step back with an exaggerated bow. “All yours, Sir Dimples.”
He slips inside, and I follow, dropping my camera bag on the entry table.
“Well?” a deep voice calls from my living room. “Did you scare off the newbie yet?”
Ace appears from around the corner, looking unfairly good in his black tactical gear. His light-brown hair is neatly styled as always, in a way that emphasizes the sharp angles of his face. Ace is lean, but undeniably strong, a build that comes from years of discipline. His steel-gray eyes assess me with a familiar intensity, the kind that makes you feel it under your skin.
