There’s a faint scar on his forehead, disappearing into his hairline. He’s dressed plainly in a white T-shirt, boots, and jeans. His tattoos look cool but don’t give me any clues. He’s not wearing any jewelry except a giant silver skull ring on his right hand. The design on the ring looks familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe he’s in a biker gang?
Why would he be on campus? No one’s allowed unless they’re a student, professor, or a guest. He could be someone’s bodyguard, scoping out the place before the fall semester starts.
Then I have a thought, and my heart sinks. “Did my father hire you to follow me?” He’s tried this before, hiring bodyguards. He worries about keeping me safe because of his line of work.
Normally, I wouldn’t be fussed. I’ve had bodyguards before. When I’m sick of them, I just give them the slip. But the thought of this guy being hired to spend time with me takes all the fun out of things.
“No.”
Hmmm. “So you’re stalking me?”
He eats three sausages before answering my question with a question.
“Why do you say that?”
“I think you’ve been following me. Did one of Papa’s enemies hire you?” Like Dominus Vesuvio? I don’t want to drop the name, in case I need to play dumb about mafia stuff later on.
His right brow twitches. The movement is tiny, but I’m studying his face like I’m going to be quizzed on it later, so I notice. “What do you know about his enemies?”
“I know he has them.” I’m not getting Vesuvio vibes from him, which might mean he’s been assigned to protect me. “That’s why he didn’t let me go to high school. Things got hot, and I kept ditching my bodyguards, so he kept me home and made me do classes online. If you are my new bodyguard, I want you to know, I’ll behave.” I don’t want to jeopardize my newfound freedom.
“Are you capable of that?”
“Behaving?” I hold out my hand and tilt it back and forth. “Eh…”
The corner of his mouth quirks upward. He appreciates my honesty and rewards it. “I’m not your bodyguard.”
“And yet you kept me safe. In the garden and now here.” I’m about to ask why—not that he’d answer because this conversation is like interrogating a rock—when Dolores slams a plate in front of me.
“Short stack.” She refills Blondie’s mug with coffee, grabs three of his empty plates, and disappears.
I look up from the whipped cream-covered goodness with shining eyes. “You got me pancakes?”
“You ate your meat.”
I sneak my fork across the table and stab a sausage off his plate. “Now I’m eating your meat.”
A flicker of heat in his eyes. “Don’t choke.”
My entire body flushes. The air between us electrifies, and the hair on my bare arms rises. He’s mere inches away. A couple of scoots and I could be right next to him. Or sitting on his lap. The thought makes my inner thigh muscles quiver.
What would he do if I leaned in and felt up the solid biceps in his arm?
Would he catch my hand before I could even touch him? Or would he let me?
I rate my chances of actually touching him at seven percent, with a one percent chance of him hauling me across his lap to punish me for the attempt.
I rock my hips on the seat, trying to scoot closer without him noticing. It doesn’t work. He immediately clocks it with a flick of blue eyes, both daring me to do something and warning me away.
Hmm. There’s now a seventy-eight percent chance he’ll reject me, and I’m not ready for this conversation to be over. “Can I ask you a personal question?” He doesn’t answer.
“Please,” I whine.
He reaches out and swipes a bit of whipped cream off my lip. He holds my eyes as he licks it off.
All the oxygen in the room disappears. I can only blink at him, my body aquiver.
He barely touched me. And now there is an ocean between my legs.
