The Billionaire Bodyguard Next Door

Prologue

EIGHT YEARS AGO

LUNA

The night was a total bust.

I’d spent all this time on my hair and makeup and picked out a killer outfit, and for what? Nothing.

There were absolutely no prospects at this damn party. Trust me, I did a lap.

And then I did another lap, just to double-check my work.

I was thorough like that.

Paige promised this party was going to be riddled with hot guys. She was wrong. Very wrong.

Speaking of friends, where was Paige?

I scanned the room, which was bustling with people. I knew some of them from college and others must have been friends of Paige’s roommate since I didn't recognize them.

My best friend was likely playing hostess with the mostest, making the rounds with her roommate. Besides, there were a lot of nooks and crannies in this ritzy apartment that made it damn near impossible to get a good vantage point.

Ohh there she is . I spotted her across the room, making out with some guy with a mullet.

Hmm. Not who I would have picked for her. But then again, our tastes—especially in the opposite sex—were night and day. She went for grungy guys, and I went for the bad boys.

At least it meant we were never vying for the same guy’s attention.

While I contemplated extracting her, someone bumped into me with a thud, my vodka soda nearly spilling over the rim of the glass.

“Hey, watch it.” I turned to glare at the culprit to find a man with warm brown eyes, a wide smile, and a sleeve full of tattoos cascading down his arm.

Well, hello there.

This night was looking up.

My mystery man must have just arrived, because I certainly wouldn't have missed him during my earlier rounds. He wore a black t-shirt that molded to his chiseled chest, and he’d paired it with dark skinny jeans and some shit-kicker boots.

This good girl needed a bad boy and the man in front of me fit the bill perfectly. I was sure of it.

“Sorry about that.” He grinned, reaching out to make sure I was steady. “Someone thought flailing their limbs was a good idea.” He glanced over his shoulder, and I followed his gaze.

Sure enough, someone was dancing—if you could even call it that—on the dance floor.

I sank into my hip, accentuating my curves, and nodded at the real offender. “Well, that's a hazard.”

“Hence my bumping into you,” the tattoo guy said as he scanned my body, and I couldn't help but notice the look of appreciation on his face while he did. “Any injuries I should be aware of?”

I bit my lip playfully. “Are you a doctor?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes alight.

I reached out, casually running my hand down his arm. “I've never seen a doctor with tattoos like that.”

He leaned into the touch. “And why can't doctors have tattoos?”

I shrugged. “I'm not saying they can't. I'm just saying I haven't seen it before. Maybe I should take a closer look.”

A broad smile broke across his face. “I think that's a fantastic idea.”

He grabbed my hand and led me to the kitchen where the drinks were laid out on the counter. He snagged two beers and then led us through the living room and out onto the small rooftop garden.

If anyone glanced our way, I didn't notice. I was too focused on the man in front of me. We hadn't even exchanged names yet, and I wanted to know everything about him—who he was, and what he did for a living because this man was not a doctor. For one, I could feel the calluses on his palm. I'm pretty sure doctors didn't have time for the manual labor required to carve those into his hands.

Second, he had a mysterious glint in his eyes. One that made me think he was joking and wanted to run with this ridiculous ruse.

The man was so scrumptious I had no qualms about letting him do just that.

My kitty was certainly in agreement. It had been two long months since I'd gotten laid, and I was practically in heat.

If this gorgeous man had a working dick, he’d suit my needs just fine.

As long as he wasn’t a serial killer.

That would be a hard pass for me, which should go without saying, but I feel like I should mention it, nonetheless. I do have some standards.

But pending that, it was game on. While he sat down, I took a quick second to smooth my hair.

I had spent a considerable amount of time styling it, perfecting the 1950s movie starlet look I'd been going for. Earlier this week, I'd found a gorgeous dress at a thrift store and the whole vision practically formed in front of my eyes. It was frankly the only reason I dared to venture out tonight. I should be spending time working on my business plans. It was my only day off from Veuve where I worked as the assistant manager under my mentor Gigi Holstein.

But the lure of hot men and some much-needed me time tipped the scales.

The sizzling specimen in front of me patted the spot next to him. The terrace only had room for a small loveseat, which I planned to take full advantage of.

I sidled right next to him, our thighs touching. My bare leg against his tight black slacks.

In a swift—and frankly presumptuous move—he lifted my feet off the ground, turning my legs so they were in his lap. The gesture was reserved for an intimate partnership between two people who were completely comfortable with one another.

And us.

He grinned. “What's your name?”

I wasn’t distracted at all by his large hand right above my knee. Nope. Not even a little. “Luna, and yours?”

“Beckett, although all my friends call me Beck.”

I reached out and palmed the scruff lining his cheeks. “And do I get the honor of calling you my friend?”

He leaned over, his scent infiltrating my senses. Beck smelled of pine and mint. Fresh and clean, and for some reason a startling contrast to the way he looked. Although I should know by now not to judge a book by its cover, we all do it. His breath was warm as it hit the shell of my ear. “You can call me whatever you'd like, gorgeous.”

A shiver slithered down my spine. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He smirked. “There’s more where that came from.”

“I'm sure of it. Although I have to tell you, that was one cheesy line.” The man’s tongue was made of honey and if anyone could pull off cheesy, it was him. “How do you know Paige?”

He frowned. “Who’s Paige?”

That made me laugh. “She lives here with her roommate.” I pointed to the glass partition that separated us from the inside of the vast apartment most people would kill to have. “You know, the party you’re at. She’s the host. Bubbly brunette with a streak of pink in her hair, nose piercing.”

He nodded. “Ahh, Paige and Kristina, right? I just moved in on nine. I met some women in the elevators, and they insisted I come tonight. Apparently, they were worried there wouldn't be enough hot guys.” He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? I think they mentioned a certain friend demanding hot men in attendance.”

I shook my head, the picture of innocence. My friends knew they could lure me here with the promise of good-looking men that could help me scratch my itch.

“Doesn't ring a bell, and that definitely doesn't sound like me.” Then I sat up straighter, leaning back to take him in. This man was what wet dreams are made of. Like hot book boyfriend material. Those men were just works of fiction.

That could only mean… “You're not some sort of gigolo, are you?”

The man was that good-looking. It was a genuine question. There was a very real possibility women paid good money for this man to fuck them senseless.

So that's a third thing we could add to my list of requirements to break my dry spell: a working dick, not a murderer, and not a gigolo.

That's a solid list.

I waited for his response with bated breath.

Finally, Beck threw back his head and released a rumbling laugh, his deep voice rattling his chest. Tears sprung in his eyes.

I swiped them away, wanting to soak up as much of this time with him as possible before sending him on his way, because again, gigolos were not on my list. A noble profession, if done consensually. Just not for me. “Sooo, yes?”

He winked. “I'm a doctor, remember?”

I pointed at his face. “You did that little wink there, and it undermines everything you said after that.”

Beck captured my hands and glanced down. His thumb rubbed against my inner wrist. “What's this?”

I didn’t need to look down to know exactly what he was asking about. The soft spot between my palm and my wrist was home to a “c” shaped scar. It had been there since I was seven when I’d accidentally tugged the cord of my grandma’s ancient curling iron, only to have it fall on my arm, leaving behind a permanent mark.

I used my free hand to cover it as I shared the story with him.

His brows furrowed. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes. I sobbed so hard I gave myself a headache. My grandma felt terrible, so she sent my grandpa out to get us both Dairy Queen sundaes. That's when I learned I could cry and get ice cream. Gotta love a silver lining.”

“And you have a badass scar.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, that's definitely what mattered to seven-year-old Luna.”

He smirked. “No doubt.”

Beck squeezed my hand one more time before letting go, breaking that physical connection.

But I couldn't not touch him. I poked him gently in his firm chest. “Now that you know my scar, I want one of yours.”

He splayed a hand in front of him. “There are so many to choose from.”

My eyes darted to his bare skin, searching for hints of scars. I used the opportunity to run my fingers down his tattoo-covered arm, mesmerized by the intricate patterns I found there. “Did you cover any—” I gasped, my fingers finding the mark.

If I didn't know better.

“Is that a gunshot wound?” My voice was barely a whisper.

He nodded solemnly. “I got that one in Afghanistan while trying to evacuate a hospital from enemy fire.”

“Did it hurt?” I asked, my lungs seizing as my finger glided over the spot that he’d covered in intricate waves that reminded me of a famous Japanese artist. The design was dizzying. Gorgeous and rough. Rugged.

“Yes.”

“Did you cry?”

His thumb reached out and swiped a thumb across my lips. “I cried like a baby.”

My head tilted into his palm, like a cat seeking comfort. “Brave of you to admit it.”

“Men shouldn't be afraid to show pain or feelings. Shouldn't be afraid to be human.” He sounded like he meant it.

How might our world look different—look better and safer—if men were strong enough to show their emotions, to let them breathe? “I couldn't agree more.”

Sitting here, string lights casting a glow across his face and the darkness of night surrounding us, I felt I knew this man. Somehow, the stars aligned and sent him straight to me. Some cosmic forces at work.

I wondered if he could feel it too, as his hand covered mine, holding it right around his upper arm.

He stared deeply into my eyes. “It doesn't hurt anymore.”

I peered at him from beneath my lashes. “Are you sure?”

His Adam's apple bobbed. “Positive.”

Before I could second guess myself, I bent forward and kissed the scar, a million follow-up questions sitting on the tip of my tongue.

Beck growled in response, immediately threading a hand through my hair, drawing my mouth to his.

One thing was certain: this outfit wasn't going to waste, and my dry spell would finally come to a satisfying end.