The bed’s already made up in the cottage, so there’s not much to do. It’s a big one-room cottage—a studio essentially. But I bring him an extra blanket, another pillow, and some fresh towels.
After I set the towels on the bathroom counter, it’s probably time to leave. Instead, I point to the shower door. “You need to let the water run for a few minutes to heat up,” I say.
“Good to know.”
“If you want a hot shower, that is,” I add. I really should go.
He crosses his arms. His broad chest somehow looks broader. “I love a hot shower,” he says, his voice a little lower than usual.
“Me too,” I say.
His eyes darken as he adds, “I’ll probably take one in a few minutes.”
I swallow roughly, grabbing on to the counter so I don’t melt into a puddle of hormones. I’m picturing this man stripping down to nothing, the water sliding over his strong body and down his pecs, his abs, his thighs.
How far does his ink go? Does it extend up his arms, over hisbiceps, across his chest? I try to undress him with my eyes, but unfortunately, they don’t have X-ray powers yet.
“So, yeah. Enjoy,” I say, and it’s late. The stars are winking in the sky. It’s been a long day. I need to give him some space now.
“I will,” he says. “Enjoy it, that is.”
Just say you’re sorry, then go.“I should go,” I say.
“See you in the morning. Let me know what’s on the agenda tomorrow, Ripley,” he says as he walks me to the door. My gaze strays to the tablet on the nightstand. A sheet of paper pokes out from it, like it did the night I met him. Looks like he’s still doing origami. This time he’s made a cat.
It’s my last chance to do the right thing. I reach for the knob, then try. I swear I try to saysorry about what I said earlier.
But instead, the words that fly out sound a lot like, “You’re good with your hands.”
I mean, it’s close to an apology.
The farmhouse is quiet as I get out of the shower a little later and pull on sleep shorts and a cami. My grandmother lives in the garden-level suite—her own apartment in the house.
I’m up on the top floor with my dog. When I slide into bed, Hudson sits dutifully on the floor, wags his tail, asking to join me. I pat the mattress. He jumps, springing onto the bed, ready to slumber.
I settle into bed, grabbing my phone to text my besties. I see Bridget and Chloe pretty often, so I don’t want to run into themon the street with my hot, hulking, too-handsome-for-words bodyguard without letting them know I have one. They’d give me a hard time about not telling them first. Best to warn them. Besides, I’m still feeling all twisted up about…everything.
Ripley: Things I didn’t have on my bingo card for today—getting a bodyguard.
Chloe: WHAT?????
Bridget: Details!
I grumble as I type out a quick explanation about Haven, and Chris, and the film.
Chloe: So basically, you’re living the dream.
Ripley: What dream?
Chloe: The regular-girl-gets-a-bodyguard dream.
Ripley: I don’t think that’s a dream.
Bridget: You’re wrong, Ripley. You’re just wrong.
Ripley: So much for getting any sympathy from you two.
Chloe: I’ll see if I can bring you a cup of sympathy tomorrow. Ideally, when he’s striding next to you, wearing aviator shades, a snug T-shirt, and a broody expression.
