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I’m still afraid of it. What happened in that tiny booth threatened everything about our friendship. If we’d been face to face, I wouldn’t have been able to resist temptation. Liam can never know it, but the fact he was standing behind me is what saved us.

I tuck my phone away, unwilling to use it more than I have to. My screen hasn’t frozen again since the Congratulations message, but I still don’t like touching it.

“I just texted Cora,” I announce, and my voice comes out way too loud for the enclosed space of the car. But I force myself to keep going. “She’ll meet me at the range tomorrow and help me out. Since she has the same gun, maybe it’ll help if she shows me.”

Liam glances at me, then immediately back to the road, saying nothing.

“Since she has the same gun,” I say again, but that only makes the excuse sound weaker.

Even by the dim light, I can see him clench his jaw. It creates a knot of tense muscle I want to smooth away with my fingers, and I imagine the prickle of his five o’clock shadow beneath my touch. I tighten my hands together in my lap. As Liam remains silent, I feel each second tick like a bomb between us.

“You have more important things to do than teach a beginner how to shoot,” I say, and when he still doesn’t reply, I start rambling. “You have so many responsibilities, Liam. I don’t want to be the reason you have to sit outside the shop all day.”

“You’re mine to protect,” he growls, taking a sharp right turn. Between the sudden movement, the authority in his voice, and the way he says mine, the shiver down my spine is uncontrollable. My nipples tighten into points. Even beneath my coat, sweater, shirt, and bra, they’re so stiff it’s like I’m standing naked in the cold.

I’m his to protect.

I’m his.

I want nothing more than to put all my faith in Liam’s protection. But against an omnipresent threat like Harrison’s hacking skills, true safety isn’t possible. And Liam physically guarding me 24/7 won’t change that.

I cringe at the thought of him wasting another day on my “safety” while I’m at work. As the soon-to-be leader, his duties are more important, and they always will be. He has so many people depending on him, so many lives in his hands. So many men under his command.

“What if you assign someone else to guard me?” I suggest, already knowing he’ll hate the idea. “That way you’re still protecting me, just not in person.”

I watch his chest rise as he takes a deep breath, and I bite my lip. In Liam’s mind, there must be countless wheels turning, all with intricate details I can’t fathom. He must know as well as I do that he can’t spend his life outside the tailor shop.

“Gus,” he says at last. “He’ll drive you and stand guard. At the shop and at the range, wherever you want to go. Within reason,” Liam adds, and the warning edge in his tone makes me pull my coat tighter.

* * *

I’ve met Gus before, though we’ve never talked much. As he drives me to work the next morning, I realize that’s because he rarely talks at all.

He’s slightly older than me and Liam, mid-forties perhaps, with gray streaks at his temples that match his driving cap. When I try to make pleasant small talk, he speaks in grunts and single syllables, and I’m reminded of Cora’s nickname for him.

Grumpy Gus.

I see why Liam assigned him to guard me. The man has no room for chitchat because he takes his job so seriously.

Thankfully, he stays in the bulletproof town car, using the same parking spot Liam did. If Gus had insisted on standing guard inside the shop, his scowling face would’ve scared off customers.

Antoine arrives a few minutes after me.

“Car guy with you?” He thumbs over his shoulder, and I nod. “S’pose that’s the new normal, then? Since you’re soon to be an official O’Sullivan and all.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, because yes, an ever-present burly man is my new normal. It’s Liam trying to keep me safe, but it’s another reminder of the giant change in my life. Like being in possession of a gun.

“Sorry,” I say. To Antoine, I know it sounds like I’m apologizing for the inconvenience of having a constant guard at work. But I’m also apologizing for the lie.

He grins at me, then ducks into the storage room. When he emerges with a handcart stacked with bolts of white fabric, I want to apologize again. Nausea roils in my stomach as he wheels the cart over to me, then places a thick three-ring binder onto my worktable with a flourish.

It’s a lookbook of wedding dresses.

For years, Antoine has vowed that he’ll be the one to design and sew my wedding gown. He’s always phrased it like a privilege, calling me the perfect model and canvas for his talent. A wedding gown would be the ideal opportunity to showcase his ability.

But it won’t be real. He’ll be creating a dress destined for an annulment.

“Take a look-see,” he says. “We’ve got some time to finalize the design, but we should select fabric soon, in case we need to order anything special. For your skin tone, I’m thinking ivory.”