Page 22 of Big, Burly Bodyguard

My nose twitches with the scent of the hair dye.

Mitchell stands behind me, cheap plastic gloves barely covering his enormous hands. He eyes my reflection in the mirror. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes. I don’t know. Do you think it will make me look terrible?”

“Nothing will make you look terrible, Evie.”

Ugh, this man and his sweetness. He makes my entire insides go all gooey when he says things like that. I take a deep breath.

“Let’s do this!”

He wields the little squeeze bottle of strawberry blonde hair dye. It looks like a toy in his hand. He picks up the instructions and glares at the unfolded paper.

“I’ve disabled bombs with fewer steps,” he murmurs.

That makes me giggle.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits.

“It’s not permanent,” I say.

He frowns. “It literally says ‘permanent color’ on the box.” He cocks a brow at me.

“I realize. But hair does grow. So if you ruin it, I’ll just get it cut super short and start over. It’ll be an adventure.”

I’m sitting on the ottoman from the corner chair in our hotel room, and we’ve got cheap towels we bought spread over the floor around us.

“If you screw it up, will you let me polish your toenails?” I ask him.

That makes him laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.”

He opens the bottle, mixing the chemicals with slow, deliberate movements. He treats this the same way he treats everything involving me—with focus and care.

It makes my chest ache.

I’m just an assignment, I remind myself. He’s not actually getting attached.

The first touch is gentle. He sections my hair with his fingers, careful not to pull. The brush is cool against my scalp, then warm, as he paints on the color. I watch the methodical way he moves from one section of hair to the next.

His hands move through my hair like this is the most normal thing in the world. I’ve had countless people wash my hair over the years, but this is the first time I’ve felt every touch. Every press of a finger, every grip on my strands. I am so aware of his presence in a way I’ve never noticed anyone else.

“Can I ask you a question?” I blurt.

He nods.

“Is he, your brother, I mean, he is like you? Are you similar?”

Our eyes meet in the mirror, and the weight of my question feels almost devastating.

He clears his throat. Paints another strip of hair. “No. Not particularly. He’s a hard worker. But in a different way. He’s spent most of his life behind a desk. Making tons of money. Desk life is not for me.”

“I have my own money. In case you’re worried about me taking his.”

There’s a quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not worried about that at all. I suppose we look a little alike, only I’m bigger. He’s a good guy.”

The quiet now feels weighted and awkward.