Page 9 of Big, Burly Bodyguard

The world tilts.

“I’m here to keep you safe,” he continues. “Escort you to Vegas. For the wedding. That’s it.”

My face burns.

“Oh,” I whisper.

He exhales. “Yeah.”

We sit there in the quiet hum of the engine, the weight of the moment pressing down.

“I’m so sorry,” I say finally. “I thought⁠—”

“I know what you thought,” he says gently. “This one’s not on you. I’m guessing you haven’t seen any of Mike’s messages to you?”

I press my hands to my lap, mortified. I shake my head. “Well,” I manage weakly. “This is awkward.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Just a misunderstanding. Nothing more.”

We pull back onto the road.

And I hope that some sort of wormhole opens up and swallows me into a new dimension.

chapter

four

Mitchell

I thumb my phone at a red light, checking it out of habit more than expectation. Still nothing from Mike. He’s probably buried in meetings. He always is. I suppose there’s nothing really for him to say to my message that I had her, she was safe and we were on our way.

I keep my eyes on the road, in a futile effort to ignore her. But she’s already everywhere.

My truck is beginning to smell like her. A sweet and gentle scent that reminds me of citrus and freshly baked bread. The memory of the way her hips filled my palms as if they’d be sculpted to fit perfectly. The lyrical echo of her voice when she’d said our marriage like it was already real. Her accent is similar to one you’d hear in a wealthy pocket of London. And I’d be a damned liar if I said I didn’t love it.

The way her impossibly blue eyes widened when I told her the truth, the way they’d gone from bright excitement to shuttered embarrassment in half a second flat.

Christ.

When I agreed to do this favor, I’d never considered I’d be attracted to her. I hadn’t actually thought about her at all. This morning she’d been a favor for my brother.

But now she’s a person. A woman. Soft and lush in a way a woman should be. All curves and warmth and expressions, she doesn’t know how to hide. The kind of woman who looks like she belongs snuggled in your arms on a comfortable sofa instead of a restricted, posh palace.

Those eyes.

Fuck.

Too big. Too blue. Too honest.

I’ve spent my career reading people—watching hands, posture, micro-expressions. I know fear when I see it. I know lies. I know when someone’s pretending to be braver than they feel.

What I saw in her wasn’t calculation. No manipulation or feigned seduction. No, it had been nothing more than hope.

Hope that the man holding her suitcase might also be the man who gets to keep her.

My jaw tightens.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Mike—the brother who treats marriage like a business merger—is the one she belongs to. The one who swore he’d never settle down, never get tied to anyone who might need more than he can give.