Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
At one point I ask for a volunteer. Becca Ortiz—fifth-grade math teacher and resident ray of sunshine—bounces forward. I guide her stroke by stroke, hand over hand. When she catches Sawyer watching, she fans herself theatrically.
“Cam,” she stage-whispers, “if security detail looks like that, sign me up for witness protection.”
The room erupts with giggles. My cheeks burn hotter than cadmium red, but I keep my tone breezy. “He’s strictly professional, Bec.”
“Professionally gorgeous,” she mutters, returning to her seat.
I pretend concentration, though heat coils low in my belly. Yes, Sawyer is gorgeous. And yes, the way his eyes follow me—not possessive, but aware—is doing scandalous things to my focus.
Two hours flash by in a technicolor blur. Finished pieces dry on makeshift clotheslines, shivering like prayer flags. The teachers hug me, promising to use the techniques in class. Becca lingers.
“So, Sawyer,” she says coyly, extending a paint-stained hand. “Any chance you moonlight as a model?”
His lips twitch. “No ma’am. Strictly in the protection business.”
“Pity.” She winks at me. “Cam, guard that one. He’s lethal.”
I manage a laugh, nudging her toward the exit. “See you soon, Bec.”
Once the last teacher filters out, I start cleaning brushes. Sawyer appears at my elbow, rolling up his sleeves, and holy arm porn. His forearms should be illegal. “Let me.”
I watch muscles flex beneath tanned forearms as he swirls sable bristles through jar after jar. “Didn’t know bodyguards came with art-cleaning abilities.”
He glances sideways. “We adapt.”
“Always adapting,” I echo softly, aware how close his hip is to mine. Static arcs between us, a live wire just begging to be touched.
The custodian coughs from the doorway, breaking whatever spell forms over soap-suds. Sawyer stiffens, professionalism snapping back into place.
“Time to roll,” he murmurs.
The drive home coils with thick silence. The sun beats on the windshield. Sawyer’s sunglasses hide his eyes, but I feel them anyway. Halfway across the Saint Pierce Bridge, I risk a look. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Thinking,” he replies.
“Dangerous habit.”
That earns a ghost of a smile. “Just replaying entry points. The school felt safe, but complacency—”
“—is the real war zone. I remember.” I nudge his arm with mine, teasing. “Guess I should be flattered you stayed glued to my six.”
He shifts in the seat, tension crackling. “Wasn’t exactly a hardship.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like a lovesick teen.
Back at the estate, late-afternoon light drapes the facade in rose-gold. Edgar greets us with news of fresh-baked focaccia. I intend to shower first, but Sawyer places a gentle hand on my elbow.
“Walk with me. Five minutes.”
I follow him through French doors onto the west terrace. The garden sprawls: wisteria, fountain, ivy climbing marble columns. He stops beneath a willow, where dappled shade paints stripes across his jaw.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing’s wrong.” His voice is low, sandpaper-soft. “Just needed a breath before we dive back into fortress mode.”
My pulse skitters. We stand inches apart—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his chest.
“Cam,” he says, sweeping a stray hair from my face, fingers lingering at my temple, “today at the school… I realized I can’t guard you if I’m distracted.”
“Distracted how?” The question flutters from my lips like a dare.
“By this.” His hand slides to cradle my jaw, thumb tracing the bow of my mouth. Electricity detonates behind my ribs.
“And what is ‘this,’ exactly?” I breathe.
“A tactical nightmare.” He leans in until his breath ghosts across my lips. “And the only thing I’ve thought about since I met you.”
The world narrows to willow rustle and heartbeat thunder. I rise on tiptoe, eyes half-lidded. His fingers tense, as if weighing consequences.
Footsteps crunch on gravel—Edgar, announcing dinner. Sawyer’s hand falls away and I swallow disappointment—and relief?—like bitter wine.
He clears his throat. “We should—”
“Yeah.” I hug my arms around myself. “Focaccia waits for no one.”
We head inside. The charge between us doesn’t dissipate. Instead, it coils, simmering, a fuse burning slow. I know two things with blinding clarity: Someone out there wants me afraid—and someone right here makes me feel anything but.
Somehow, I suspect the second danger might be the harder one to survive.
5
Sawyer
I’m pacing the terrace outside the dining room the way most people scroll their phones—endlessly, compulsively—because distance and night air are the only things keeping me from replaying the garden incident on loop. One reckless heartbeat, one brush of hair from Cam’s soft skin, and all the protocols I live by crumpled like tissue.
My pulse jolted, and her breath hitched. The sky, already gold with late afternoon, slipped into dusky rose— and I almost did something irreparable.
Almost.
A throat clears behind me. Edgar stands framed in the French doors, silver tray poised like a diplomatic flag.
“Dinner is served, Mr. Maddox.”
Showtime. I roll my shoulders, carve professionalism back onto my features, and step inside.
Tonight’s meal is seared salmon with citrus couscous—Camille’s idea of “light,” Edgar’s idea of “fussy,” my idea of one more arena where I have to stare at her mouth without acting on impulse.