Chapter 8
S omething’s burning my eyes. I crack one, instantly blinded by a ray of sunlight streaming through the passenger window of Crue’s Bronco directly onto my face. Ow.
I roll my head to the left and find Crue fast asleep in the driver’s seat, one hand still around his phone, the other holding…mine. He’s holding my hand?
Both my eyes snap open.
Crue’s holding my hand. Purposely. It’s not like “oops, my hand fell on top of yours.” No. His arm is stretched over the center console, his forearm resting on my thigh, while his hand visibly envelops mine.
I don’t know when he took hold of my hand. Or why. But I’m not rushing to get out of it. I’ve never held a boy’s hand before.
Technically, he’s holding mine because his is so much bigger but I’ve never had a boy hold my hand before either. It feels nice.
What a way to wake up. With the plumpest set of lips I’ve ever seen, or felt, contradicting the unforgiving jawline that appears to be clenched even during complete relaxation, Crue’s the perfect male specimen. Under his crewneck is a full sleeve of tattoos that had me losing my train of thought more than once in the pool yesterday. That arm is too far away from me to explore right now but the phone he’s holding with it is aimed my way with his thumb on the glass, keeping the screen lit up…and revealing what he was looking at before drifting off.
“Bodyguard Requirements” is in bold letters.
Has he never been a bodyguard before?
Below that’s a list. There are a lot, making most of the words too small to make out but I do see “high stamina, excellent combat and defense skills, and strong communication skills” at the bottom. In parentheses, directly under that last one, is “do not engage with Protectee unless prompted.”
All Crue’s done is engage with me so far.
The hand on mine tightens suddenly as my novice bodyguard sits up in a rush, asking, “What’s wrong?”
I immediately throw his hand and arm off me, anger filling my voice. “Other than you molesting me in my sleep? Nothing. Can’t you keep your filthy hands off me for—”
“You’re the one that had filthy hands.”
Had?
I stop to assess my hands. They’re clean, even the nails. Didn’t I pass out before getting to all of them?
I did. So how are they clean? And my hands? How’d they magically get clean without any water in here?
“Did you clean my hands?”
Rubbing his face, Crue shrugs and mumbles, “I didn’t want to get my hands dirty, too.”
He did. He cleaned my hands and my nails for me.
“You could’ve kept them to yourself. Or did you skip over that part in your Bodyguarding for Dummies handbook?”
He glances down at the phone abandoned on his lap and makes a noise in his throat.
“I needed to know if you tried to leave.”
That’s why he was holding my hand? Not because he wanted to?
Something crashes against my ribs from the inside.
Nothing he’ll ever do while being on my father’s payroll will be because he actually wants to. Not talk to me. Not protect me. Nothing.
“What did you use? To clean my hands.”
“Spit with a little bit of elbow grease.”
“You spit on my hands?”
Crue doesn’t answer.
Why doesn’t that gross me out as much as it should? Truthfully, it doesn’t gross me out at all.
“How’d you clean my nails?” I ask quieter, genuinely curious.
“Same way you did.”
Our eyes both fall to his hands just as he curls his fingers into his palms.
“You don’t have long enough nails.” He probably couldn’t even scratch me with those nails, they’re so short.
Again, I’m met with silence.
How did he clean my nails? And why? Nothing under my nails would’ve gotten on him from holding my hand.
“Alarm’s off,” Crue says, nodding at Edwin shaking out a rug at the bottom of the staircase.
I don’t move, just watch the hundreds of pieces of dust spring off the rug as they float through the air in all different directions.
“Do you have classes today?”
I nod without taking my eyes off the airborne particles, wishing I was one of them.
“I’ll walk you inside.”
Getting out, he heads straight for the manor, his back entering my vision and stealing all of my attention…until he turns to face me and catches me staring.
Hardening my features, I point at the passenger door.
“What?” he mouths.
“It’s not working!” I yell with more hand gestures.
He pulls out his key fob and begins the trek back to his Bronco.
The locks click into place, then unlock again.
“Try it now,” he instructs from the other side of the window.
I pretend to yank on the handle and give him an irritated look like he’s the one doing this to me. Quit fucking around, Crue. It isn’t funny.
He gives it a try, opening the door right away.
I hop out.
“So you do know how to get the door for women?”
“Fuck…” he mutters with a shake of his head and a flare of his nostrils.
I strut by him, but when I look back, he’s not admiring me the same way I was him. He’s glancing all around, at everything but me, surveying the area for some sort of threat.
His research is kicking in. He’s full bodyguard now.
Does that mean he’s going to stop engaging with me?
I veer away from the manor.
“Where are you going?”
“For a run.”
“You just—” he starts to say before cutting himself off.
After shutting his door, he follows wordlessly.
I break into a steady jog, not going as hard as yesterday. I guess I can ease up on him a little bit. He did clean my nails for me. And he held my hand.
I squeeze that hand into a loose fist, pretending his is in it for the rest of the run.
When we make it back to the manor, instead of following me up to my room like yesterday, Crue lingers in the foyer and says, “I’ll be right here when you’re ready to leave, miss.”
I freeze halfway up the stairs. Miss?
“I need to talk to Mr. Munreaux,” he tells Edwin.
“Of course, sir. May I ask in regard to what?”
“My accommodations.”
He’s going to rat on me, tell my father what I did to the guesthouse.
“Were they not to your standards?”
“Uh.”
I can feel both men’s eyes on me, so I resume the climb to the second story with my head held high. I don’t care if he tattles on me. What could my father possibly do to me that he hasn’t already?
I’m just coming out of my room when I practically run into Edwin.
“I’m…uh…” At a loss. I can’t remember the last time I saw someone in this wing of the manor.
I spy Crue behind him.
Ah, now I remember. It was yesterday, when Crue escorted me to my door.
But before that, I honestly don’t remember. I don’t even see the maid when she cleans my room.
It had to have been my nanny when she still lived here.
“Miss Munreaux, Chef Koch had to run out but he left some breakfast items on the counter for you and Mr. Brantley.”
“Is that why you’re up here?” I can’t keep the suspicion from my voice. Why is he here right now? Why are either of them here?
“No, I was just showing Mr. Brantley to his room.”
“His room? He’s staying in the guesthouse.”
“Not anymore,” Crue says smugly. “It’s too far away.”
“So put him in another guest room,” I tell Edwin, ignoring Crue altogether.
Crue’s the one to respond first. “This is the closest to yours.”
“But it isn’t available.”
“Miss Munreaux, do you have a guest I’m unaware of?”
I look between Edwin and Crue, both their expressions souring by the second.
“No, but that doesn’t mean I want one either. That room’s off-limits. There are six guest rooms in this house. Give him one of those.”
“Five now.” Shit. That’s right. I’m not used to any of them being occupied. “Mr. Munreaux believes this one is best suited for Mr. Brantley’s needs. The close proximity will provide—”
“The close proximity will provide a stranger direct access to me,” I fucking hiss.
“I’m not a stranger. I’m your executive protection agent.”
“You’re not my anything, and I’m not an executive.”
“You will be soon enough.”
I glance at Edwin for the briefest of seconds, but he’s back to being as stoic as ever.
“If you’d prefer, you can call me your personal protection ag—”
“I’d prefer to call animal control to come fetch this fucking stray trying to make himself at home outside my bedroom!”
I can’t believe I took it easy on him this morning.
Ignoring my mounting hysteria, Crue just says, “As your personal protection agent, I need direct access to you in order to keep you safe.”
“If you want to keep me safe, get me a lock for my door!”
“Your door doesn’t have a lock on it?”
He eyes my doorknob with a scowl.
“I didn’t think I needed one…” My gaze drops. “Until now.”
“I’d never go in your room unless it was for your protection,” Crue says quietly but vehemently.
I don’t acknowledge him, only continue staring at the floor. It’s not like anyone would believe me anyway. My room’s never felt as unsafe as it does now.
Edwin breaks the tense moment with a forced cough. “If you’d like, Miss Munreaux, I can make the proper arrangements to have one installed while you’re at school.”
“ I’ll install one myself,” Crue tells him. “I need to make sure no one else can make a copy of the key.”
That has my gaze rising.
“Shouldn’t I be the one to install it?”
Neither man responds, making my blood boil. Is it because they think I can’t manage such a task or because they don’t trust me to be the only one with keys to it? After all, it is my private sanctuary.
Crue gets between me and Edwin, telling the valet, “I’ll personally take care of the lock,” before ushering me over to the room next to mine. “If you don’t mind, I’d like Miss Munreaux to show me my accommodations this time. Make sure there aren’t any surprises waiting inside for me.”
He was just calling me Ever last night. I hadn’t even realized how much I liked him using my name until he stopped.
“How could I leave any surprises if I didn’t even know this would be your room?”
I’m shoved inside without an answer.
Crue closes the door on Edwin still standing in the hallway, staring after us but doing nothing to stop this. Thanks for the help.
“Pull back the comforter.”
With his focus solely on the bed, I check the spot beside the headboard. Not finding any noticeable seams, I sigh in relief.
“There aren’t any mousetraps under it.”
“Show me.”
I cross my arms over my chest.
When I don’t make a single move, he finally looks at me. I keep my eyes locked on his and lift a brow.
“Does your dad call you Never because you never do what he asks?”
The arrow slices through me, making my shoulders curve inward. I quickly drop my arms to my sides.
“You didn’t ask anything, murderer .” And neither does my father. It’s all commands, all the time.
Two large hands grip my shoulders, then I’m sailing through the air. I land on the mattress with a hard bounce.
He threw me on the bed. Without knowing for certain if it was covered in mousetraps. What a dick.
“What the fuck?” I screech as I scramble up to sitting. “My outfit—”
“Is fine. Everything except your skirt.”
When I turn a glare on my bodyguard, his face is hard as marble.
“What’s wrong with my skirt?”
“It’s too short.”
“Long enough to conceal this.” I pull a middle finger out from under it.
Ignoring me, he says, “Now check the dresser.”
“Check it yourself.” It’s not like he can throw me on it.
But he does drag me by my elbow over to it, which I do not appreciate one bit.
I yank each drawer open with way more aggression than necessary, then go over and open the closet before he can drag me there, too. I even walk inside it and wave my arms around, proving there’s nothing in it.
“See? I told you.”
“What about the bathroom? You put traps under the toilet lid last time.”
I internally snicker. I forgot about those.
“Do you really think I’d pull the same exact shit?”
All he does is shrug. He does. He believes I’m that uncreative. Thankfully.
We go through the en-suite bathroom, getting the same results—no traps whatsoever. I did absolutely nothing to welcome my new room neighbor. Had I not been blindsided by this turn of unexpected, not to mention unwanted, events, I would’ve given him a reception to remember.
I think I still will.
Under the pretense of an eye roll, I scan the top of the room where the walls meet the high ceiling.
“Well, I don’t want to be late to school, so…” I’m already walking backward.
“You still have thirty-five minutes before your first class starts,” he says as he disappears into the bathroom.
Someone must’ve given him my schedule. Father.
“The drive there takes me seventeen minutes alone, then I have to find a parking spot and walk—”
“It won’t take me that long to get us there. Just give me a minute, then we’ll leave.”
He wants to drive me to school? But then he’ll see the clones. He’ll see me with the clones.
Disgust dripping from my tone, I say, “A minute won’t help you. You need a shower.”
“I’m aware, but we don’t have time for that.”
He steps out of the bathroom.
I consider his all-black outfit from the long-sleeve V-neck to the jeans to the boots. It’s not that he looks like a bodyguard per se, but he is giving off major danger vibes.
Major Danger. I almost laugh at myself. That sounds like the name of the costume he was wearing at Hide and Keep.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at himself. “Why?”
“You’re about to walk onto one of the wealthiest campuses in the country and you look…” Hot. The clones will be throwing themselves at him. “Poor. Wear a suit or something.”
Suits are almost trite in my world. Nobody bats an eye at a suit, but everyone will be batting their eyes at Crue looking like a piece of forbidden fruit.
“I don’t own a suit.”
“I’ll have to fix that,” I blurt before reminding myself I don’t want him as my bodyguard. I don’t want anyone as my bodyguard. “Give Edwin your measurements and he’ll have some made,” I tack on to make it sound less personal.
“I don’t know my measurements.”
“Because your body’s changed recently or…”
“I’ve never been fitted.”
“Never? Not even for that homecoming?” He knows which one I’m talking about.
Darkness settles over his features as he shakes his head. “I borrowed my dad’s wedding suit that night.”
“That’s the only one he has?” My father’s closet is almost entirely suits. Suits for every occasion, even Sunday dinner when people are supposed to be at their most relaxed.
“Had. It got ruined.”
Because of the accident.
My eyes find the scar on his cheek.
“That got ruined, too,” he says.
So that’s how he got the scar.
It doesn’t ruin his face at all. I’d tell him, if I could, that pristine art never sells as well as the messy, chaotic pieces because perfection isn’t real, it’s manufactured, then replicated. People settle for replicas, but what everyone really desires is an original. Crue is a true one of a kind.
And he’s about to find out that I’m not.
I sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”
Outside, Crue automatically heads toward the driver’s side of his Bronco before stopping suddenly, backing up, then veering left. Without a word, he opens the passenger door and waits for me. I get in with a frown on my face but a smile on my heart. Major Danger opens my doors now.