Two
Clover
Sipping my iced chai latte—which I probably shouldn’t be drinking late at night, but oh well—I reread the sentence. “Nope. You, my little friend, have got to go.” I mark out the extra words and make a note to the author as to why they’re unnecessary.
I scan the next sentence. “Chop. Chop.” A slow smile spreads across my face as I cut more words.
Tugging the throw tighter across my shoulders, I pull my leg up into the chair, reading the next few sentences of the manuscript. Jazz music floats in the air around me as I make adjustments to the remaining chapter.
Ten down. Thirty-three more to go.
My client, Chantelle Pratt, writes the swooniest heroes and the coolest heroines who you can’t help but relate to. And the romantic tension in her books is full of sizzling, palatable tension.
I double-check the document is saved before I close it. I’m not tired, so I’ll probably snuggle on the couch and finish reading The Viking by one of my favorite authors, Carrie Cotten. First, I need to stretch my legs and maybe get a snack. I glance at the time and grimace. Ten till one in the morning. Yeah, I definitely shouldn’t have had that latte. But it won’t be the first time I’ve stayed up all night living in a fictional world and pretending I’m someone else, and I’d be kidding myself if I said it would be the last.
The throw falls as I stretch my arms above my head. I should be a responsible adult and go to sleep, but this book is sucking me in, and I’m beyond anxious to get to the first kiss scene. And not at all fantasizing that I’m the heroine in the story.
A sigh escapes my lips. I love my job and the authors I work with all without leaving my house, but sometimes the books I edit only highlight how lonely and miserable my life is.
Standing, I push away the thoughts. My life isn’t lonely. I have Mom and Dad.
Who you never see now that you’ve moved.
A small church family.
Who you never talk to .
And I have Chantelle.
Who you’ve never met in person and pays you.
I shake my head, ignoring the reality that I have no true friends.
The sound of a motorcycle filters in from outside. Did one of my neighbors—that I’ve never spoken with—get a bike? Or maybe they have someone visiting?
Not that it’s any of my business, seeing as I have never attempted to form a relationship with my neighbors.
Shadows cling to the living room as I walk to the dark kitchen to rinse out my glass. All is quiet in my sleepy little neighborhood nestled on the outskirts of Denver. I like it here and am glad I finally decided to take the leap and move away from Hollywood. But I still have dreams of owning a big piece of land far outside the city.
Then you’d never have to see anyone.
The thought both comforts me and makes me itch. I don’t hate people. Not really. I just don’t like being around them. Ever.
It’s too loud. Too overwhelming and overstimulating. Too . . . everything. My skin crawls simply thinking about it.
I’ve tried most of my life to fit in and be normal, but I’ve had to face the reality that I’m not. I rarely go out. Sometimes I’ll make a quick run to the store, though with grocery pickup or delivery, it makes it even easier to not have to face any crowds. Heck, it takes me an entire week to prepare myself for a two-hour church service every Sunday.
I’m pathetic.
If I didn’t know better, I would think God made a mistake. That He put me with the wrong parents. Or that my parents have been lying to me my entire life and I’m actually adopted. Which is just as crazy of an idea as God putting me with the wrong parents. Still, if I didn’t have Mom’s signature violet eyes and Dad’s dark curls, I would really question if I was biologically theirs.
Where they thrive in the spotlight, surrounded by fans and co-stars, I prefer the dark cave of isolation. Just me, myself, and I.
Setting the glass gently into the sink, my shoulders droop as I glance out the small kitchen window to the driveway. My sports car is in the garage, so the driveway sits empty.
A shadowy figure crosses in front of the window, causing me to jump. My hand flies to my chest as I work to take deep breaths. Maybe it was one of the stray cats in the neighborhood. If said cat has suddenly grown to be six feet tall.
My shoulders tense as I swallow over the lump in my throat and step back into the dark kitchen.
Did they see me? Who is it? What do they want? Is it the paparazzi?
Questions shoot off rapid-fire, each one sending a new pang of alarm throughout my body.
“Don’t panic, Clo,” I whisper, knowing full well that I am panicking as my knees threaten to buckle beneath me.
I blink, and the shadow passes by the window again, just far enough away from the streetlights that I’m unable to get a good look. However, it does confirm that it is indeed a person—a man—roaming around outside my house. At the moment, I regret not replacing my outdoor lights when they went out a month after moving in.
Steeling myself, I command my hands to stop shaking and try to remember everything I’ve learned in my self-defense classes.
“God, keep me safe,” I whisper as I quietly walk backward. Hurrying to my desk, I open the bottom drawer. I pull out the locked box where I keep my pistol hidden. I make sure it’s loaded and grab my cell phone, noting a string of missed calls from Daddy.
“Yeah, kind of busy at the moment, Daddy.” My tone is sarcastic as I slip my phone into my cardigan pocket, but I’d give anything for him to be here right about now. Even if I did move to Denver to prove to myself—and everyone else—that I could be an independent adult.
I should call the police, but if I do that, there will be questions. Reports and documentation. And then word will get out about who I am, and more importantly, who my parents are, and I’ll have to move. Best try and handle this on my own, even if the thought makes me nauseous. Because I am an independent woman and I won’t allow some stupid paparazzi trying to make it big ruin the life I’ve been building here. If I’m lucky, it’s only a drunk who got lost in the dark.
Tiptoeing, I breathe another prayer for strength and shakily lift the gun with both hands, only moving my left hand to open the outside door. Flipping the safety off the gun, I remind myself of the trigger safety my instructor taught me and keep my finger off the trigger until I’m sure I’ll need to use it, all while praying that won’t happen. It’s one thing to shoot a target, but having to use it on another human, even in self-defense . . . my throat clogs up as I press on.
Creeping through the dark, I try to stay as quiet as possible so as not to be detected. When I open the door in the kitchen that connects to the garage, I cringe at the squeak. Yeah, should have fixed that too. I make the short distance from the kitchen door to the door leading outside. Thankfully, it doesn’t make a sound as I gently open it.
My bare feet hit the pavement as my eyes bounce back and forth, trying to find the intruder. The dim glow from the streetlight barely reaches the side of my house, casting everything into shadows. Shadows that may jump out on me at any moment. All is silent except for the sound of my roaring heartbeat in my ears.
I suck in a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out.
Taking another step, I tense when I hear the sound of a branch snapping behind me.
“Sorr—”
Spinning around, I squeal and slam the end of the pistol into the assailant’s face. His hand rises to grip the bridge of his nose as he mutters something.
With trembling hands, I straighten the gun and take a giant step back. “Wh-who are you?” I lock my right elbow in to steady the gun, praying the entire time that I’ll be able to fire if needed, while also praying I won’t be forced to.
Lifting his head, his amber eyes latch on to mine, and then he—
GRINS!
The idiot is grinning at me as if I didn’t just bust his nose with a gun.
“Can’t say I’ve ever had a woman hit on me quite like that before.” He pinches the bridge of his nose again and tilts his head back slightly as blood drips over his lips and red beard.
Fury and fear mingle together, rushing through my veins. He’s large enough—with his muscular tattooed-covered arms—that if he wanted to try something, he could. Plus, I made the man bleed, so he’s probably angry enough to do something crazy. I shake the gun a little, still avoiding the trigger, as I try to get him to focus on the evidence that I am armed and dangerous, even if my hands are trembling. “Who the heck do you think you are, plundering around outside my house like some kind of . . . of Viking?”
His eyes flash with amusement, and his lips tip higher as he continues holding his nose. I have to fight the urge to hit him a second time. “Well, I am one of their gods,” he replies easily, moving his hand to tap the tattoo of Thor’s hammer on his right forearm. Before I can respond, his hand is moving toward his pocket.
My stomach plummets. “Don’t move!”
He pauses, still smiling as blood drips out of his nose, and says in a calming voice, “It’s okay. I’m only getting my ID.”
My heart is racing as I dip my head for him to proceed, my shaking fingers ready to slide over the trigger if he tries anything. Pulling out something, he snaps it open, flashing it in front of me. I can barely see it in the dim streetlights. Squinting, I finally make out the words Obsidian Group Security and his name. Which is—
“Call me Thor.” A smirk plays on his lips. “As in, God of Thunder.”
I glare at him, still holding the gun up but less convinced he’s an actual threat. Just a nuisance. “That doesn’t mean anything. Who are you really, and why are you here?”
“My name is Thorin Payne, and I’ve been hired to be your constant shadow for the foreseeable future.”
I blink. Then blink again. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
His gaze trails slowly over my face, snagging on to my eyes. “I don’t think so. Say, can you do me a favor and maybe lower the gun before you accidentally do more damage to this gorgeous face of mine?”
Ignoring his comment about his face, I reluctantly lower my quivering arm before flipping the safety back on. “Look, Mr. Payne—”
“Thor.”
Definitely not calling him that. “There’s been a mix-up. I didn’t hire you.”
“No, Miss Mason. Your father did.”
“No, that’s cra—” My mind snags on the fact that he knows my name, and then I remember all of the missed calls from Daddy and practically growl. “Just like something he’d do.”
A deep chuckle vibrates from him as Mr. Payne puts his ID back in his pocket and pulls out a bandana. He wipes at the blood dripping from his nose and then runs the bandana over his face and beard, attempting to remove the remaining blood. He fails. “And I’m assuming you didn’t know I was coming.” He tucks the bloodied bandana into the pocket of his jeans, his eyes connecting with mine.
I shake my head, my frustration shifting from the man in front of me to Daddy.
He claps his hands together, and I flinch. “Then we’ll forget this ever happened.” Holding his hand out to me, he waits for me to take it before giving me a firm shake. “Hello, Miss Mason. I’m Thor. Your new bodyguard.”
Dropping his hand, I reply, “Well, you’re officially fired. ”
His lips lift in the corner. “Sorry, Miss Mason. Your father hired us, so I’ll be here until further notice.”
I fight another growl building up in my chest. “You can’t be on my property without my permission.”
Inclining his head, he nods. “True. The sidewalk, however, is city property. I’ll be right there”—he points to the curb where a motorcycle, which I’m assuming is his, sits—“if you need me.”
“Wait, so you’re going to sit there all night?”
“And day. And the next night.”
I raise a brow. “And when will you sleep?”
“Aww . . . it’s so cute that you’re worried about me already.” He presses a hand to his heart, and I roll my eyes.
Ignoring him, I reply, “Listen, you can’t just sit out there. My neighbors will see you.”
He shrugs. “If you aren’t allowing me on your property, that’s my only option. But don’t worry, I’ll stay hidden in the shadows.”
“During the day?”
Giving me a side-eyed glance, he replies, “I’m really good at not being seen.”
My gaze glides over his tall, muscular frame, and my cheeks heat. I highly doubt he’d go unnoticed. “Says the man who I caught sneaking around outside my house.”
He cringes slightly and rubs a hand down his beard. “Yeah, sorry about that. I honestly didn’t expect you to be awake. I was checking the perimeter before settling in for the night.”
I lift a brow. “Outside? ”
Shrugging, he replies, “It wouldn’t be the first time and won’t be the last.”
Giving him a long look, I plant my hands on my hips. He cannot be here. “I’m calling the cops.” It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He makes a humming sound deep in his throat, watching me with a calculating grin. “Interesting that you didn’t start with your father.”
“Daddy won’t listen to reason,” I reply, pulling out my phone.
“Cops will be on my side,” the pain in my behind says.
I narrow my eyes. “For trespassing?”
He shakes a finger at me. “I’m not trespassing if I’m on the sidewalk. Remember?”
Glancing around, I sigh. “Get inside.”
A smirk forms on his face. “Inviting me home with you already, Miss Mason? While I am flattered, I, unfortunately, can’t mix business with pleasure.”
Crossing my arms, I huff out a frustrated breath and pray for patience. “Did I hit you that hard or are you always this obnoxious?”
“Ouch. I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but obnoxious has never been one of them.”
“Doubtful.” I head toward the garage door. Daddy is going to get an earful from me. Mr. Payne clears his throat, and I glance over my shoulder. “Well, come on.” He hesitates, his eyes darting from me to the door. “What?”
“I’m wondering what the chances of you murdering me are. ”
A surprised laugh catches in my throat—I’m blaming the ball of nerves currently residing in my stomach—as I grasp the doorknob. “Must not be much of a bodyguard.”
“Can never be too careful.”
Opening the door, I reply with a heavy sigh, “I can’t have the neighbors seeing you outside my house. So if you refuse to leave, I need you to come inside while I call Daddy and have him fire you.”
“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”
My skin itches as Mr. Payne’s massive form takes up most of my kitchen space. No one has been inside my house since the moving crew when I moved in, and I don’t like how suffocating it feels to have him here. He glances around, appearing to observe more than the casual grin plastered on his face would let on.
“Uh . . . here.” I reach for a glass and pull out the water pitcher.
“Thank you.” He dips his head as he accepts the full glass.
I pour myself a glass, trying to ease the tension before making the phone call that I know won’t go anywhere. Still, I have to try, because there is no way this man can be under my roof for longer than this conversation with Daddy.
My eyes drift to the man in question to find him already studying me. Warmth fills my cheeks as my breath catches. Why is he so close? He reaches across me, setting the glass by the sink. He doesn’t touch me, but I can feel the heat from his body, and my breathing grows rapid, my vision blurring.
Concern etches his brow as he leans back. “Are you okay?”
“Too close,” I manage to ground out, my anxiety spiking along with my heart rate.
His eyes widen and he takes two giant steps back. I suck in a deep breath as blessed air fills my lungs. Blinking back the tears, heat creeps up my neck and face. Why do I have to be so . . . not normal?
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to get so close. I was only setting the glass down. That’s all. I would never hurt you, Miss Mason. I’m here to protect you. Remember?” His tone is so soft and earnest that I can’t keep from meeting his worried gaze.
I shake my head, trying to figure out how to explain to this stranger my sometimes debilitating anxiety. “I don’t like people in my . . . bubble.” I almost cringe at how harsh I sound.
Mr. Payne nods thoughtfully and crosses his arms as he leans against the counter. “That’s understandable. I promise that I’d never intentionally make you uncomfortable. And all that outside, I was joking around to try and put you at ease.”
Giving a nod of acknowledgment, I inhale deeply to calm my racing heart, then pull my phone out of my pocket. “Well, you won’t have to worry about it much longer anyway. I’m about to get you fired.”
His mouth quirks. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Miss Mason.”
I don’t reply as the phone rings twice before Daddy answers.
“Clo, it’s about time you returned my call. This is urgent.”
“Obviously, since you felt the need to hire a bodyguard that I do not need.” I hug myself with my free arm, bracing for the fight to come. Mom respected my choice to leave California, but it hurt Daddy that I didn’t stay close to them. He’s sometimes—a.k.a, always—overprotective of me. Only child problems.
“Ah. So he’s already there? Good, good. Your mother and I will sleep better knowing you’re okay. Unless you want to hop on a plane and come stay with us?” There’s a hopeful note in his voice, and guilt wraps around my heart. I miss my parents. But the idea of flying—even in their private jet—and then staying in California where everyone’s eyes are on me has me growing clammy.
“I’ll be home for Christmas. Remember?”
Daddy sighs. “Yes, but it would make us feel better if you were here until the danger’s passed.” His words make my hair stand on end.
“What’s going on?”
“Angie’s had a mental break.”
My heart drops. Angie is Mom’s stunt double and has been for a decade. “I thought she was doing better since the divorce?” I sneak a peek at Mr. Payne, who is glancing around, trying to give me privacy. I appreciate the small gesture.
Daddy sighs again. “We thought so too. Then her sons told the judge they wanted to live with their dad.”
“Oh. That’s awful. But I’m confused. What’s that got to do with me?”
“Angie’s not been acting like herself for a few weeks. Kept showing up hungover and dressed like your mom. When someone on set would say Clarissa, Angie would answer.”
My stomach twists into knots. “That’s . . . creepy.”
“We’ve been encouraging her to get some counseling, though she kept insisting she was fine. But yesterday, she was in your mom’s trailer going through her stuff. And when someone mentioned me, she was acting like she and I were married.”
Suddenly, every suspense novel I’ve ever read starts playing through my mind. I gulp. “She thinks she’s Mom?”
“Yes.”
I bite my lip, my heart breaking for Angie and everything she’s gone through. “Did you fire her?”
“Yes, I had no choice. As you can imagine, she didn’t take it well. She started screaming at everyone and talking about how her daughter would know who she was—”
I swallow over the lump of unease lodged in my throat. “Angie doesn’t have a daughter.”
“Exactly. Security tried restraining her, but she ended up getting away. We called the cops, and we’re going to file a restraining order in the morning. The cops went to check on Angie, and she was gone. Clothes were lying everywhere, and her keys and car were gone. They have an APB out on her, and they want you to be careful. They said you should go file for a temporary restraining order.”
I press my fingers into my temple. “She wouldn’t hurt me.” My voice lacks conviction.
“Honey, she’s not in her right mind. We don’t know what she’d do. The security company we hired has a private investigator working to find her too. The cops can only do so much without more to go on, and I’m not willing to risk your safety.”
My gaze finds Mr. Payne. He’s humming to himself, his back to me.
Still, I lower my voice as much as possible. “So you’re saying . . .”
“You need to keep the bodyguard, until the P.I. finds Angie, or she is apprehended, and you’re safe.”
“And there’s no way to convince you otherwise?” I know the answer before I’ve finished asking the question.
“You know how dangerous this business can get. Angie’s been in your mother’s shadow for years. Now she’s lost her marriage, her sons, and her career. She’s desperate. Desperate people are unpredictable.”
“Why do you always have to be so practical?” I grumble.
Daddy chuckles. “That’s what dads do. So, are you coming home or staying?”
“Daddy . . .”
“I figured as much. But you can change your mind anytime. Okay?”
“I know.”
“Good. So, you won’t cause trouble for the bodyguard, right? We hired the best.”
“I’ll behave.” Mostly. Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it .
“Good. Hopefully, it’ll only be for a few days.”
One day is too long. A few days in the Viking’s presence? I resist shuddering.
“I love you, Clo. We want to make sure you’re safe. Okay?”
“Yeah. I love you, too, Daddy.”
Hanging up the phone, I turn around to face the music—or man, rather.