CHAPTER 1
Isolde
THE NIGHT HER BEST FRIEND HIRED HER A BODYGUARD
Tristan Trevino doesn’t appear amused byLove Island.
I’m not one to judge. I personally likeNaked Attractionbetter, but ifLove Islandis causing the guy to clench his jaw, I can’t imagine what he’d make of six competitors being lined up with the sole intent that one of them will eventually end up buck naked.
“I’ve got a text!” a woman squeals on the screen. She’s cute with blonde hair and blue eyes.
We share those two traits, except this blonde looks great in a thong bikini. Plus, she’s capable of creating a smoky eye look every night. And most importantly, she can speak to men.
My sister Sammie was good at that, too. She was good at talking to anyone she ever came across.
Me, though? I’ve currently got a man in my living room, and I can’t formulate one fucking word.
I reposition myself in the corner of my green sofa. I’m not one for interior design. It’s all a bit beyond me, color scheme and stuff. But this sofa is made out of dark green velvet. Sometimes I smooth my hand over it just because I like how it feels.
Tristan sits in a brown leather chair, caddy corner to the sofa. The chair is almost too small for him. He’s got his knees spread wide and his arms crossed. His brown eyes stay trained on the telly, except for the few times he’s looked down at his phone.
He sighs—a lot.
It’s not like I asked him to become my bodyguard.
That’s all on Ren. She thinks she’s being helpful, hiring me a bodyguard. It’s payback for when I hired Tristan in the first place—when the bodies of her ex-boyfriends began to show up.
Except, I made a mistake. When a man showed up with a gun right outside her flat, I believed the bullet was meant for her. Turns out I’d been the intended target.
Only one person has ever tried to kill me before. Looks like he hasn’t stopped trying to kill me.
It’s all been taken out of context, though.
Tristan didn’t need to follow me home from the warehouse where Ren had orchestrated a shootout among her closest competitors.
I tuck my elbow closer to my side, holding still. If I don’t move, I don’t hurt.
“You’re in pain.”
“Huh?” My voice sounds weird even to me. But I’m just tired.
And so is Tristan, based on the shadows under his eyes and the way his lips draw down.
Thank fuck this flat is a two-bedroom. Where would he have slept otherwise? When he watched over Ren, he camped out in the flat next to hers. But that’s not an option since this building is full.
Tristan leans forward in his chair. “Why are you holding yourself like that?”
My arms are crossed, one hand cradling my elbow, a makeshift human swaddle.
“No,” I reply belatedly, realizing that doesn’t actually answer his question.
He frowns, his entire face dipping as his eyebrows furrow together.
Fucking beautiful. Even when he’s angry, it’s like he’s golden. If Tristan Trevino were a contestant onLove Island, he’d get panties sent to him in the post.
“Get a hold of yourself, Isolde Matheson.”Sammie’s ghost snorts.
I swallow, my throat dry. My older sister is visible in my periphery, in the chair beside Tristan. She smirks, her nose curling up as she bites back laughter. Her eyebrows wag as she continues to taunt me.
