“And I need something to do with all this nervous energy. Normally, I’d head down to the coffee shop for a change of scenery or take a walk and maybe try and dictate part of my book, but right now I’d settle for grocery shopping, getting my oil changed, or even a root canal. Justsomethingto take my mind off things.”
“If you want me out of your hair then I have to get through all these files so I canfigure out who’s doing this to you. Security work isn’t as glamorous as they make it out to be.”
“It’s definitely a lot sexier in books,” I agree, reluctantly starting to stand, knowing I have to go occupy myself elsewhere.
“Look, I know this is a lot for you and while what I’m doingisimportant, I can spare ten minutes.”
“Really?” I ask, lowering myself back down as he nods.
Wow.
Okay, what do I want to know?
The contemplation gives me a chance to look at him for a second, my mouth watering at the way his shirt is stretched so tightly over his arms and chest. Thoughts from the other night come rushing back, and I have to blink hard to refocus.
Because the last thing I need is to accidentally tell him I need justonereally good, rearrange my organs and forget my own name, orgasm. Writing about sex is fun butGod, I miss it.
Alas.
“Have you ever been someone’s bodyguard?”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
“No.”
“What made you agree to be mine?”
“Because I was asked.”
“That’s all it takes?”
“There was a lot of asking.”
“What do you usually do?”
“Security,” he offers. But when he doesn’t say anything else, I bat my eyelashes until he adds, “Security isn’t just one thing. There are investigations, events that require contingency plans, we dig into people and corporations related to the business, and evaluate additional resources that may be required.”
“Have you ever crossed the line with someone you were protecting?”
“No.”
“Ever tempted?” I grin.
“No, that’s what makes me good at my job.”
Such a letdown.
Leaning heavily back against the chair, he pinches the bridge of his nose, his obvious annoyance at having to beextra niceto me brightening my mood considerably.
“That’s so boring.”
“This isn’t like one of the stories you write about. This is real life where people can die because they’re involved. Being involved makes you complacent and complacency kills.”
“What do you know about my writing?” I ask, skipping over all the important pieces of that statement.
“It’s good.”
