Four
Clover
A rattling noise followed by a loud clang has me jumping straight up in bed, my heart galloping. I’m reaching for my pistol on my nightstand when the fog clears and I remember the events of the night before. Groaning, I suck in a deep breath to calm my racing heart and glance at the clock. Six AM. What kind of monster bangs around in the kitchen at SIX in the morning!? No one should be up this early.
“Stupid Viking,” I mutter as I throw back my covers and shuffle to the bathroom connected to my room.
The reflection staring back makes me grumble even more. My hair is a fuzzy mess piled up on top of my head, and my eyes are rimmed with dark circles from all the tossing and turning I did after going to bed. Surprisingly, finding out that your mom’s deranged stunt double is potentially stalking you and having a strange man inside your home doesn’t lend itself to a restful night of sleep. Go figure.
Sighing, I pull my hair down and begin my morning routine several hours before my normal morning should be beginning. I scrub my face and then grab my spray bottle full of water to refresh my curls. After scrunching my hair, I brush my teeth before going to get dressed.
My hand hovers over my jeans briefly until I grab my hot pink sweatpants. I am not making myself uncomfortable simply because a hot—no, no, no. Mr. Payne is not hot. I shake my head, trying to remove the image of my bodyguard’s twinkling amber eyes. Not hot at all.
I slip on my Rhett Butler T-shirt featuring his famous Frankly, my dear line and try to prepare myself for facing the person making so much racket first thing in the morning.
When I enter the kitchen, I freeze, immediately regretting my choice to get out of bed. I should have gone back to sleep with my earplugs because I have to be imagining the sight before me.
I cross my arms. “Are you wearing my apron?”
Thor’s head snaps to me, a wide grin on his face. “Good morning,” he greets way too brightly. Especially for a man wearing an apron with the words I bake because punching people is frowned upon on it.
I sure feel like punching him as I glare at the Viking for having the audacity to be this chipper at this ungodly hour. My gaze drifts over the mess in my kitchen. Pots, pans, butter, milk, and flour litter the countertops.
“Sorry if I woke you up.” Thor winces, and his smile turns sheepish. “I dropped a couple of pans.”
“What exactly is going on? ”
“I’m making breakfast. What does it look like?” He turns to the skillet on the stove in front of him and flips the egg inside. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I made a little of everything.” He points to where pancakes are stacked on a plate beside two other plates loaded with biscuits and bacon.
I raise a brow. “I didn’t realize bodyguards had personal chef listed in their job description.”
Thor glances over his shoulder. “Your dad did hire the best.” He winks at me.
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I reply, “You’re cleaning this up.”
There’s a subtle lifting of his lips before he focuses on the skillet. “Obviously.”
Grunting, I make my way to the coffeepot and find it already full. I try to ignore Thor’s humming as I fill my mug. “Thanks for the coffee. Do you want some?” At least I can be somewhat nice to him, since he did make me coffee and breakfast.
Suspicions as to why he made me coffee and breakfast swirl in my mind. He wouldn’t be the first person we’ve hired who tried to use their position to get closer to me or my parents for their own monetary gain. Selling family secrets to tabloids or celebrity memorabilia online is quick cash for some people.
“Oh, I’ve already had a couple of cups.”
I frown as I sit on the island stool facing him. “Did you sleep at all last night?” Why do I care? Why am I even conversing with him? I blame it on being woken up way too early and the lack of coffee in my veins. My gaze catches on his slightly swollen nose, and I inwardly grimace, but at least he doesn’t seem to have black eyes from it.
“Enough.” His eyes roam my face, then drop to read my shirt. A slow smile tugs at his lips. “Nice shirt.”
I glare at him over the rim of my mug as I take a drink. A deep sigh leaks out of my lips as that first taste of rich coffee fills my senses.
“I’m surprised.” He flips the egg out of the skillet and onto a plate, turning the stove off and leaning back on the counter to watch me.
I cock an eyebrow. “About?”
He dips his head toward my mug. “That you take your coffee black. I figured you’d be one of those girls that had a side of coffee with their creamer.”
“Presumptuous, much?”
Grinning, he pushes off the counter to grab a plate. “Observant. You have creamer in your fridge.”
“I like to mix it up. Not that it’s any of your business.”
He hums in the back of his throat. Glancing over his shoulder at me, he asks, “So what’ll it be?” I sweep over the assortment of food and my mouth waters at the sight, but no way am I letting my bodyguard serve me breakfast. I shrug. “I’m not really hungry.” At that exact moment, my stomach decides to call me out on my lies.
Thor’s lips tip up, his eyes brimming with amusement. “Okay.” He doesn’t call me out, simply stacks his plate with more food than any one person could possibly eat in one sitting .
Without a word, he sits beside me, crowding my space and bringing the delicious aroma of bacon and syrup with him, plus his own unique smell, which I can only describe as rum spice, fresh air, and . . . cinnamon? Whatever it is, I don’t like it. It’s probably a cologne labeled Obnoxious Bodyguard . I inwardly chuckle at my joke and take another drink of coffee, hoping to keep my stomach from reacting to the smell—of breakfast, that is. Not him. But of course that doesn’t work.
A loud gurgle fills the air around us, and my cheeks heat. Stupid, rebellious stomach.
I don’t dare look at him, deciding to gulp my coffee down, scalding my tongue and throat in the process. If I’m going to be up at this hour, I might as well get an early start on work.
Standing, I refill my mug—because, let’s be real, I am not making it through this day without more caffeine in my system—then head to my desk in the corner of the living room, far away from the delicious smelling Viki—food. Delicious smelling food.
I try to clear my head as I remove my Bible and prayer journal from the drawer, avoiding the notebooks underneath them that always taunt me. The dreams I’ll never be able to bring myself to grab hold of. Sighing, I settle down to spend some quiet time with the only One who truly sees and understands me.
After reading a chapter, I write out a short prayer for Angie to be found safe so she can get the help she needs. Setting my Bible and journal aside, I open my computer. I check my emails first while I try to ignore the movement inside the kitchen. The hunger in my stomach has shifted to a dull ache I’m also ignoring.
Soon, I get lost in a world of perfectly broody MMCs—male main characters—and the FMCs—female main characters—who are the only ones who can break through their hard exterior. I’m not sure how long I sit there, but I’m completely absorbed in the first kiss scene when something drops on the desk beside me.
I scream.
Thor laughs.
Snapping my gaze to him, I press my hand to my chest to calm my nerves. “What are you doing?”
“Bringing you breakfast.” He smiles, his eyes trailing over my face before latching on to my Bible sitting beside me. Something crosses his expression, but I don’t care to find out what.
My eyes drift to the plate on the desk. It looks delicious. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“You lied.”
Scowling, I spin around. “Listen, Mr. Payne—”
“Thor.”
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. The only reason I even allowed you to stay here is to ease my parents' concerns. So why don’t you do like every other bodyguard I’ve had and make yourself scarce? Not seen. Not heard. Got it?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t let his smile break through. “Your wish is my command. I promise to remain practically invisible for the rest of our time together.” Dipping his chin, he walks backward, disappearing into the kitchen .
Why do I get the feeling that is the biggest lie I’ve ever heard in my entire life?
The man is going to drive me crazy. I may already be there, to be honest.
I’m attempting to finish edits on this last chapter before I take a break, but I’ve been staring at the same sentence for thirty minutes, and I still don’t know what it says. I’m ready to bang my head on the desk. Or punch something. Preferably the man who keeps humming—hymns, surprisingly—and pacing my house. I’m pretty sure he’s also eating my food because I keep hearing this annoying smacking sound. Rude.
I will give him some credit. He hasn’t stepped a single foot into the living room, so I haven’t had to look at him while he’s acting like an overgrown toddler—or a loud, obnoxious troll—but I’ve certainly been forced to hear him.
He has to be the strangest bodyguard I’ve ever been around.
God, could you have sent a less annoying guard?
The bitter prayer has guilt pricking my heart. Okay, he’s only doing his job, but come on. Could he do it a little quieter?
I inhale a steadying breath. Sorry, God. Help me not to get too bitter at the situation. I know it’s out of Thor’s control as much as mine .
And therein lies the problem. I’ve constructed this perfectly balanced life where I can control everything. Mostly because I stay holed up in my house and have zero friends. See? Perfectly controlled. No surprises. No trolls for bodyguards.
A frown tugs at my lips as I rub the ache in my chest. Am I lonely? Yes. But I’m also used to it. As much as my parents love me, they’ve always been busy with work. Leaving me alone most of my life. Especially since my only companion, Gil, passed away a year ago. Though he was of the feline type.
Stuffing the loneliness down, I pick up my phone and text Mom to see if there are any updates. Maybe Angie has been found, and I’ll be able to ditch the Viking. Or troll, rather.
My phone buzzes, and when I read the text, my heart deflates.
Mom
Nothing yet. Are you sure you don’t want to come stay with us?
I bite my lip, hating the fear that clenches my chest at the thought of going home. The lifestyle my parents live is just way too . . . busy and loud for my taste. I shiver, thinking about the times Mom and Daddy used to make me go on set with them. While I’d loved watching Daddy behind the scenes, it was everything else that would send me into a spiral. I had my first panic attack on set. After the fourth one, my parents finally got the memo that I couldn’t handle the chaos. No matter how organized it might be and how much I enjoyed observing the production process.
The sounds of pacing and low humming float from the kitchen into the living room, and I cringe. I normally work with instrumental music playing. But when I turned it on earlier, I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for Thor to jump out. I worried the music would mute any sounds of him walking into the room. Though the alternative sounds of him in the other room aren’t any better.
Regardless of whether he’s quiet or noisy, I’m on edge knowing there’s another person in my house. One I do not want here.
As if my thoughts made him materialize, I hear a light rapping at the doorway. “Knock, knock.”
I slice my gaze to him, not even attempting to cover my annoyance. “Yes?”
A wide smile appears beneath his red beard. “Just doing a perimeter check.”
My eyes narrow, and I glance around the room. “Because so much has changed since you checked a couple hours ago.” My voice is dry.
“Can never be too safe, Miss Mason.”
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I face my computer again. “Whatever you need to do to make yourself feel better.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t respond as he steps inside, looking outside the curtains and checking the window locks.
“Did anything magically come unlocked?”
“Nope.”
I hum. “Surprise. Surprise.”
Thor chuckles. “Listen, I’m going to run out and grab something from my bike. ”
“Are you asking if I’ll be okay for five minutes?” I wave my hand toward the door. “Please, by all means, just hop on your little bike and drive away. I’ll be fine.”
“Can’t fire me, remember?”
I let out a long sigh. “Unfortunately.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh before heading out the door and for three beautiful, glorious minutes, I can take a full breath.
Sadly, it isn’t long before he’s striding back inside, whistling a little tune.
“Do you always make so much noise when you’re working?” I ask, frustration dripping from my words as I snap my eyes in his direction.
He locks the door behind him, a small duffel bag tossed over his shoulder. Running a hand over his beard, his eyes twinkle as he watches me and adjusts the bag. “Quietly humming and whistling is a lot of noise to you?”
“I live alone. So, yes.”
He nods. “Got it.” It’s all he says before he walks out of the room.
Once he’s gone, I inhale a few deep breaths, praying for patience in this crazy situation.
Lord, please let them catch Angie soon.
It’s a prayer for Angie’s safety and my sanity.
I look at the sentence on the screen again, but when the words start blurring together, I sigh in disgust and shut my laptop. I’ll have to come back to it later .
Glancing toward the doorway, I contemplate how I can get to the kitchen for a quick lunch without having to interact with the troll, but I know it’s impossible.
Gathering my courage, I stand, stretching my hands over my head. My feet tingle. I should have gotten up and moved more.
“Gotta stay active, Clo,” I mumble. It’s something I have to remind myself of all the time, living alone and working from home.
I hesitate at the doorway as I realize the house is quiet. Too quiet.
Did he leave?
One can only hope, but I’ve never been that lucky.
Peeking through the doorway, I don’t see him in the hallway or kitchen. My brow furrows. Did he go outside? Maybe he heard something and went to investigate.
Entering the kitchen, I scream when I almost trip over the man on the floor.
“What are you doing!?” I step back, clutching my hand to the base of my throat as I swallow back the panic.
The troll doesn’t even look up as he continues his push-ups. “Taking a nap,” he says, not even sounding out of breath. I’d probably be half-dead after two push-ups, but the man keeps pumping them out. Then, he starts clapping when he’s mid-air.
I snort. Show off.
“What was that?” Up. Clap. Down. Up. Clap. Down .
“Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, doing your job?” My gaze unwillingly drifts to where he’s changed from his jeans and black T-shirt to a white tank with dark gray ball shorts.
“I am.”
He’s not looking at me, which I’m grateful for at the moment since I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the rippling muscles in his heavily tattooed arms as he pushes up, claps, and then lowers back down.
I swallow, finally averting my gaze. “So you’re getting paid to work out in my kitchen?” And putting his very defined arm muscles on display. But I don’t say that.
In one fluid movement, he pushes himself off the floor. His chest is heaving as he steps closer to me. I stiffen, but he stops and leans against the counter, crossing his massive arms and leaving enough distance between us that I don’t feel suffocated.
“My job requires me to be mentally and physically alert. Working out helps with both. So, yes, I do get paid for working out in your kitchen.”
Despite myself, my gaze sweeps across his chest, toned arms, and up to his face before I veer toward the fridge. “Just be sure you keep your clothes on,” I mutter quietly, but it’s not as quiet as I thought because he laughs.
I chance a glance over my shoulder to find him running a hand over his mouth, trying to cover his grin. My face heats as I wait for him to make some kind of flirty response, but he surprises me by letting it drop .
Walking to his bag on the floor, he pulls out a water bottle and drains it in one gulp. Gesturing to the sink, he asks, “Am I allowed to refill it?”
Rolling my eyes, I grunt and pull the water pitcher out of the fridge, setting it on the counter beside him. “I’m not a monster.”
“Never said you were.” He fills his bottle, neither of us saying anything. An awkward silence settles around us, and I don’t know if I want to break it or if I should bask in it.
I open the fridge again and glance inside. Drawing my bottom lip between my teeth, I let out an exasperated breath. I can’t very well let the guy starve. I don’t think it’s my job to feed him, but like I told him, I’m not a monster.
“Do you want a salad?” I reluctantly ask over my shoulder.
“Depends. Are you going to season it with arsenic?”
“Cyanide.”
Thor chokes on a laugh, and I almost smile.
Almost.