“Are you two going out tonight? Bet you’re excited to see him.”
I’m so flustered by the bizarrely mundane way he asks the questions as he snaps pictures of me that my tire smacks into the bike rack, knocking me off-kilter.
I wobble on the bicycle, the bouquets and banana bread toppling out of the basket. I slam a sneaker on the sidewalk and hop off the bike as it’s falling.
Haven’s tinny voice grows faint in my ear. “He’s already on his way to handle advance security.”
A man made only of muscle swoops in between me and the photog, catching my shoulder, then wrapping an arm around me while steadying the bike in one smooth motion. “I’ve got you,” he says. Then, to the guy, he says, “That’s enough.”
Two words. Stern. Commanding. Clear.
The photographer backs off, and before I can process what just happened, the sturdy man scoops the bouquets and the bag of banana bread from the sidewalk, slides my bike into the rack, and then whisks me away, an arm wrapped protectively around my shoulder.
My skin is buzzing.
My heart is hammering.
And my mind is whirling with brand-new fantasies of a wildly protective man who saves the day. A hero with thick thighs, flat abs, and sturdy pecs. A man with a trim beard on his chiseled jaw, and tattoos on his arms of steel.
Tattoos with geometric shapes that tickle my memory.
I steal another glance at this tall, ripped body next to mine, enjoying the view,thank you very much, up until my gaze lands squarely on a very familiar face.
My new bodyguard is none other than The One Who Ran Away.
9
HELL-FIERY
BANKS
“Are you kidding me?”
With fire in her blue eyes, she rips away from me at the corner of Main Street. I don’t grab Ripley since that’d defeat the purpose of my help. The last thingweneed is a scene. The last thingIneed is to get in trouble for putting hands on a client.
Even an angry one.
I’d been warned on my call with the logistics producer moments ago that the twin sister probably wouldn’t want security. But a lot ofregular peopledon’t. Calming someone down is part of the job. “I’m your new bodyguard. I’m only here to make sure you’re safe, Ripley,” I say, trying to appeal like it’s a basic human need.
Safety is important to emphasize. It’s something we all want. Food, shelter, safety, love—things many people don’t get in life.
She rolls those pretty blue eyes next. “Right. Sure. That’syour goal.” She reaches for the bouquets of lavender I’m holding. Probably a half dozen.
Ah, my trump card while I manage a client who doesn’t want to be a client—a good game of keep-away. I wrap an arm tighter around the flowers, keeping a grip on the bag of baked goods, too, in case that’s what she’s angling for the most.
“Oh, c’mon. Give me my things,” she says. “I want to make my delivery and get my bike.”
“In a minute, of course. Let’s chat first,” I say, trying to let her know I’m on her side.
She huffs, staring me down fiercely. “What is your deal?”
Fiery doesn’t really cut it with this one. More like hell-fiery.
“I’m part of the team working on the film. I’ve been assigned to you,” I say.Just a few minutes ago, in fact.I glance around, checking behind us, down the street, across from it. Sure, there are townspeople and tourists milling about. A block away, a woman pushing a jogging stroller turns into a white-and-pink bakery. Down the road, a man stops outside a tattoo shop, checking out the designs in the window. Most importantly, though, we’re out of sight of the photogs who stalk Chris Carlisle incessantly. Still, I really don’t want to have this conversation on the street.
Near the end of the block, a pack of women in varying shades of pastel yoga attire streams into a yoga studio. Next to that is a coffee shop, and on the sidewalk outside sits a chalkboard sign with a peach-colored coffee-cup drawing. Steam curls from the top of the cup, beckoning.
“Let’s duck into Pick Me Up.”
