Drake smirks. “I’m not like your other bodyguards, princess.”
“How do you know that?” I snark, pushing through a wave of exhaustion that wants to drag me down like gravity.
“I did my research, remember? You’ve had what, five now? And you were pretty close with every one of them.” His voice stays light, but the inference is there.
My tiredness is gone in an instant. “Are you judging me?”
Drake tilts his head to one side. “Judging you for screwing a guy like Major Barrett? Nah, who wants a man who texts his friends pictures of the girl he’s screwing for his personal hall of fame?” he snorts when I stare. “It’s a small world, Cha Cha. I was in that chat group.”
“Did you share your conquests too?” I ask, in the same disinterested tone he used earlier.
Scarred fingers splay on the wooden benchtop. “If I was screwing a client, no one would know, princess. Not the media. Not my friends.”
There's that final tone again, like I've insulted him by asking. Not about the conquests and brag walls, but his personal standards. Every minute I'm with Drake, I learn something about him. I study his face, how he holds himself and the connection finally pings.
“You're military, aren’t you?” The penny drops far too late for me, though the clues are there. The harder brand of muscle not the gym earned stuff, the incessant neatness, both so different from my previous security. The way he doesn’t joke around, how he ignores the rules, even. Because security who work for celebrities live by those rules. That’s how they get jobs. But Drake doesn’t seem to care about that at all.
“Ex military.”
Apparently that isn’t a conversation we’re delving into.
I frown. “So why are you a bodyguard, then?”
He leans across the counter and pushes my untouched toast toward me. “Eat up. I want to teach you, and you want to learn. That sounds like a good deal to me, but you need fuel for that.”
The toast is buttered, and it’s more food on a plate than I’d normally consume in any sitting. “If I say no?” I peek at him through my lashes.
Drake pushes my plate closer with one finger, silently sassing me. “Then you’re shit outta luck on both fronts, princess, and I figure this shit out alone.”
I inhale slowly and pick up a piece of buttered toast. My stomach rumbles on cue, the freaking traitor, and I take a bite. The butter sinks onto my tongue and I fight back a moan.
That same deep sound Drake made before when I agreed to his terms earlier returns. “When was the last time someone made you breakfast, Cha Cha?”
I take another bite and shake my head. “I don’t know.” I try the coffee next, willing myself to hate it. I don’t. So I try to hate Drake instead.
Fuck.
Even the mug feels heavy, and his house is too beautiful to smash anything in. Tears well in my eyes. I dip my head, hiding beneath my hair that swings forward.
Calloused fingers brush my cheek across the wooden divide. I cling to my coffee mug, unwilling to part with the gift.
“It’s okay if he scares you.” Drake’s fingertips graze my skin.
I let myself drink in the contact for a moment before I step back.What the hell happened toOperation Seduce Mr Bodyguard? “I’m not scared of him.”
Drake’s hand drops. “You should be, Cha Cha. Eat, and I’ll tell you why.”
By the time I finish my toast, I’m glad that he told me to eat first. Because once Drake has outlined all the reasons why there's only three letter writers, and which ones will neveractually make good on their threats, I no longer want to see food ever again.
“Is the threat sinking in yet, Cha Cha?”
I like it better when he calls me princess. There was something fun and flirtatious about his behavior, then. Now? This is serious Drake, the man ready to plan a strike with military level precision.
“I thought the sexual innuendos would be the worst ones,” I whispered, blinking fast to clear my vision.
No matter what I do, I can't push away the nauseating feeling of being invaded. My dressing room, where an intruder did actually break in, even though I wasn’t there; my thoughts. My body, though no one has touched me. It still feels as though a person has. Someone thinks these things about me, and I can’t stop it.
I push back from the bench top, knocking my mug. Tepid coffee slops over the side before Drake catches the cup.
