The Diva and the Grump (Too Busy for Love #8)

Chapter 1

Ismeralda

“A gentleman named Sequoia is here to see you, Madam.”

I peer over my laptop, my meticulously plucked and shaped brows that I just spent hours perfecting arch in unison. A man named after a tree? “Very well, Simms. Please send him in.”

Ever since one of my viral posts sent some not-so-nice fans out of the woodwork, Daddy believes I need protection... in the form of a man. The romantic in me wants to call him a bodyguard—cue steamy images of Kevin Costner protecting Whitney Houston—but the realist in me knows he’ll just be a pain in my butt.

Arranging my face into a neutral expression, I wait for the tree guy. When he strolls in, my jaw drops despite my best attempts. He’s a combination of James Bond and a football linebacker all rolled into one. The immaculate suit fits him like a glove and emphasizes those well-defined muscles. He’s tall—making the tree name apropos, I suppose—but his clothing is proportioned perfectly for his height. His tailor must be a genius.

“Sequoia Martin,” he says in a rumbly voice that produces goosebumps on my arms and neck. When he extends his hand, I rise and shake it, and an electrical current zaps up my arm in a most unexpected fashion.

Huh?

My finishing-school training enables me to continue as if nothing happened. “Ismeralda Harrington. Please be seated.”

After folding his large body into the fussy French Provincial chair beside my desk—a feat in and of itself—he says, “So Izzie, tell me about this assignment.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I clip, “You may call me Miss Harrington. All my employees do.”

He grunts. An actual grunt. More goosebumps form as I find the sound rather... sexy.

Ignoring my attraction to him, I launch into my prepared speech. “I’ve gotten into a spot of trouble. One of my reviews has set off a firestorm with fans of the product I... er, reviewed rather... harshly.”

Chuckling, he says, “What, did you give them a one-star rating?”

“Um, well, not exactly.”

His left eyebrow hitches as he traps me in his gaze.

I squirm, even though I’m not the one being interviewed. Am I?

“Izzie, sounds like you stirred up a hornet’s nest. According to the General, you’ve received some not-so-nice emails and someone has threatened your life. What product did you review that caused such a backlash?”

“Mr. Martin, please address me as Miss Harrington,” I repeat in a gentle tone, in case he’s a bit slow on the uptake.

Those eyebrows arch again, nearly to his hairline, as he pins me in his piercing blue gaze. My heart flutters and I become a bit short of breath. “I’d prefer to call you Izzie, since you go by that on your YouTube channel,” he rumbles, his deep sexy voice causing tingles to run up the back of my neck.

“Very well,” I agree, instantly drawn into his magnetic field. What? Why did I concede so readily?

Before I can retract my agreement, he says, “Izzie, what product could you possibly have reviewed that caused such a spot of trouble, as you call it?” he repeats, his tone suggesting that there’s nothing I could review that could possibly incite such a reaction.

Mashing my molars together, I decide to ignore his insinuation, for now. “The Glam by Kat V product line, specifically the eyeshadow and mascara.”

Celebrity Kat Von Steenberg created and touts this outrageously expensive makeup line, so I merely tested it to ensure that her product endorsements and guarantees were accurate. She’s been a lifestyle influencer, like me, for several years, curating a tremendous following. Although I’m pleased to say that I recently surpassed her by passing the two-million-followers milestone.

I’ve toyed with the idea of marketing my own products, like her, but decided I prefer trying out products to help my fans rather than coming up with formulas myself. Though I did decide to branch out to more than just YouTube by writing a couple of books.

I realize that I got lost in my own thoughts and look over to see why Mr. Martin hasn’t responded to me answering his question. It is instantly clear that he’s been struggling to hold in a laugh. “Makeup?!” he exclaims. “Let me get this straight. A review you posted about makeup has resulted in threats to your life?”

I nod. “Women take their cosmetics very seriously. Unfortunately, I didn’t count on how zealous fans are of this brand.”

“What exactly did your review say?”

“Um, well, I pointed out that the everlasting, all-day eye shadow flaked off after a couple hours and that the flawless lengthening mascara was rather... clumpy.”

“Clumpy?”

“Yes, you know. It was lumpy and clumped together on your lashes. Clumpy.”

Another laugh rumbles from his massive chest, and a few tears leak from the corners of his eyes. Apparently Mr. Martin finds this all very amusing.

“Here,” I say in a huffy voice as I slide a printout of the latest email I received across the desk towards him. “Even though you find this humorous, I assure you, Mr. Martin, it is not.” I sag back in my chair as he swipes the paper from the gleaming mahogany surface. As he reads, his expression morphs from amused to serious in a matter of seconds.

Laying the paper back down, he says, “Okay, you’ve got my attention.” Crossing those long legs at the ankle, he says, “Wouldn’t it just be better if you laid low until this blows over?”

I sigh, rather dramatically. “It would. But unfortunately I’m contracted for a five-city book tour, and I simply cannot get out of that obligation.”

He shrugs. “Okay. So when do we start this bodyguard thing? Your father was insistent that I accompany you every second throughout the tour and beyond, if needed.”

Daddy explained the man’s credentials, but I’m cranky about the situation and don’t want to be easily won over.

“What experience do you have with ‘this bodyguard thing,’ as you call it?” I ask in a prim and proper voice, then fold my hands on the desktop.

Mr. Martin settles back in his seat, getting comfortable for a long exposition about his talents, I presume. I prepare to half tune him out, not really wanting to listen to him drone on about all his achievements. Daddy has already made the decision to hire the man, this little exchange is simply a courtesy.

“I have no experience,” he says matter-of-factly.

“What?” I sputter, sitting straighter in my chair. “Daddy said that you’re the best. How can you have no experience?” My voice rises to an operatic pitch.

He holds up his hand. “I’ve been with Grayson Security for a little over a year, and before that as part of the Marine special forces. My expertise is cyber threats and investigation—tracking down dark web criminals—so your father thought I could apply those skills to this case.”

“But what about protecting me ?” I yelp.

He smirks and gestures towards his body. “Look at me. Do you think a zealot angered over a marginal review of some hoity-toity cosmetic line can get past this?”

I snort. The man’s ego is as big as he is! Plus he made what I do sound trivial. Pointing a finger at his swelled head, I say, “I’ll have you know that over two million people avidly read my reviews of ‘hoity-toity cosmetic lines!’”

A grimace crosses his handsome features. “Hold on, sweetheart. Don’t smear your lipstick. I was merely referring to the absurdity of your stalker, not what you do,” he grumbles.

Taking a calming breath—this guy is really getting under my skin—I accept his backhanded apology. “Duly noted. However, you still haven’t convinced me that you know anything at all about being a bodyguard.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve been trained in weaponless defense, unarmed combat, tactical driving, firearms tactics, first aid, risk assessment, crowd control, and personal protection techniques.”

My earlier comparison of him to James Bond pops into my head. The list he rattles off sounds impressive, but frankly I hope he doesn’t need to use any of those skills.

“Very well, you’ll do,” I reply, albeit a bit grudgingly.

He laughs. “Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Izzie.”

“I hate it that my life has come to needing the services of a bodyguard,” I admit quietly.

A serious expression crosses his handsome face. Leaning in, he says, “I’ll do everything in my power to protect you.”

My heart flips at his admission. “I know you will, Mr. Martin.”

Our eyes lock and another tingle of attraction zips up my spine.

Can he protect me from handing him my heart?

Clearing my throat, I say, “Do you have a name other than Mr. Martin or Sequoia that I may call you?” I promptly wince at my snobbish question, considering my own stuffy-sounding first name. But if he’s going to insist on calling me Izzie...

“Why? Sequoia doesn’t quite roll off your tongue?” he says with a glare.

Wishing I had kept my mouth shut, I say, “Never mind, we’ll go with the tree.”

He taps his finger on the desk, as if contemplating something. “If it helps, Sequoia is a nickname from my stint in the Marines. My first name is Forest.”

My eyes widen. I guess we’re stuck with trees.

He chuckles at my expression. “But my mom calls me by my middle name.”

“And what would that be? Sapling? Hardwood? Timber?” My eyes bug out and I clap my hand over my mouth. Oh dear! This man brings out all my snark.

Just as I open my mouth to apologize, he says, “Gabriel is my middle name. But Mom calls me Gabe.”

Leaping to my feet, relieved that I don’t have to refer to him as a tree, and wanting to end this conversation before I stick more of my foot in my mouth, I extend my hand. “I’ll let my father know we’re moving forward with the arrangement, Gabriel.”

He nods and we shake, that electrical current reappearing in full force when our hands connect.

“Miss Harrington,” he says with a jaunty salute as he strolls out the door.

Sagging back into my desk chair, I blow out the breath I’ve been holding. That man is a lethal weapon, and I fear I won’t be able to resist him. Maybe it would be better to be stalked by a Glam crazy rather than opening my life and possibly my heart to my new hunky bodyguard.