Page 17 of Big, Burly Bodyguard

Me: Tell me about it.

Me: The thing is, theirs is a marriage of convenience. They don’t know each other. There are no feelings involved.

Dillon: Sounds like you need to have a conversation with your brother.

Dillon: Tell him how you feel about her.

Me: I’ve known her for less than 24 hours.

Me: I don’t even know how I feel.

Me: I just know I feel something.

Dillon: Figure it out before she gets hurt.

Dillon: Before you cross a line with an asset, you best make sure she’s worth it and that you’re in it for good.

He’s right. Of course, he’s right.

And then there’s my brother. This is the first time he’s even considered marriage; shouldn’t I be willing to step aside and give him a chance?

I picture the way she looked when I told her she was doing great. Like no one had ever said that to her before. Like the words mattered more than I realized.

My chest tightens.

I’ve protected assets. Witnesses. Politicians. Heiresses. I’ve never once confused duty with desire.

Until now.

Until a princess asked for a towel and thanked me like I’d given her something precious.

I pull on my sweatpants and t-shirt, then hang the towels on the rack. I feel when my resolve clicks back into place the way it always does.

I will do my job.

I will get her safely to Vegas.

I will keep my distance.

I will not touch what was never meant to be mine.

Even if, for one quiet moment outside this bathroom, she looked at me like I was something she could choose.

chapter

eight

Evelyn

I fell asleep nearly immediately last night after my shower and embarrassing towel incident. After a quick breakfast in the hotel lobby–where I made my own waffle!–we got back on the road.

We’ve just made our first stop of the day. The gas station is nothing special. There are a handful of fast-food establishments nearby. We’ve gone inside the travel station that advertises “clean bathrooms.” It seems rather peculiar to me that one would need to advertise that. Would that not just be the standard?

In any case, I’ve done my business and gathered some snacks that, according to a quick internet search, are “perfect road trip snacks.”

Mitchell pays despite my assuring him that I have plenty of money with me. We’re walking out of the station when something catches my eye. They’re hanging on a spinning rack near the door—rows of bright, ridiculous flip-flops in colors I’m fairly certain would never have been approved by a royal stylist.

Pink. Neon green. Glittery gold. Cherries. Watermelon. Flamingos. Pretty much anything you can think of, and there’s a pair of whimsical flip-flops to match.