Five
Thor
Clover walks in the next morning, and I almost spit out my coffee when I see her shirt. If at first you don't succeed, it's only "attempted” murder.
Her dark eyebrow raises. “What?”
I bite back a smile, taking another sip of coffee. “Just glad I made the coffee first.”
There’s the tiniest twitch of her lip before she shakes her head and moves around me to pick up the mug I set out for her. She examines it closely, swiping a finger inside and then studying her finger.
“What are you doing?” I can’t mask the amusement in my voice.
“Checking for any powder residue,” she replies dryly.
I throw back my head and laugh before pushing off the counter to give her some space. “I’m going to do a perimeter check. There are eggs and bacon in the microwave for you.”
She hums a response as I set my empty mug down and leave the room before I do something insanely crazy like kiss her on the cheek .
Mentally shaking myself, I open the side door and step into the fresh air. Inhaling a deep breath, I push away the remaining fragments of last night’s nightmare, grateful that I woke up before I screamed in my sleep. Instead, I allow my mind to drift to Clover’s beautiful eyes and her wild, dark curls.
There’s no denying that I’m drawn toward her, but I can’t figure out why. She’s not friendly. The way she shoots daggers with her eyes anytime I’m in her presence is evidence of her dislike. Yet, she’s not cruel or outright hostile either. It’s true she’s younger than any of the women I’ve gone out with, but so far, she seems more grounded, serious, and mature than many of those women. And though Clover never smiles, she’s hilariously funny. She has a dry, sarcastic sense of humor I find myself craving more and more of. If only she’d open up a little more.
“You’re her bodyguard, you idiot. Of course she’s not going to open up to you,” I say under my breath.
God, please let her trust me , I pray. Help me to protect her and keep her safe. And if there’s something there . . . if this tug I feel for her is something You’ve placed in my heart, then show me what to do next.
I send Rock a text to see if there are any updates on Angie and to make sure he remembers to send someone to cover for me tomorrow. The idea of leaving Clover in anyone else’s care has my stomach knotting, but Gunner has a doctor’s appointment and Mom has to work, so I have to take him. I really hope Rock doesn’t send Nick—or “Cut” as we call him.
I frown, picturing my co-worker’s smile that never fails to have women falling at his feet. Where my flirting and charm are meant to be harmless fun, Cut . . . well, Cut likes to toy with women, based on the string of broken hearts he leaves in his wake. And picturing him trying something like that with Clover causes a visceral protectiveness to course through my veins as I clench my jaw. The intense response goes beyond the duties of being her bodyguard. I have no business feeling this strongly for a woman I barely know, let alone a woman who’s a client.
Cut won’t do anything while she’s a client. At least, I’ve never caught wind of that happening or heard of any complaints against him. If there were, Rock would fire him in a heartbeat.
And you, too, I remind myself.
I glance down at the text from Rock.
Rock
Keep your eyes open. Bex tracked suspect to hotel and gas station near the Wyoming border, but it appears she could be heading south toward Colorado. Still no GPS. She must be using a burner phone .
Dread twists my stomach. I always treat all my assignments as if the danger is inevitable, but having proof that this woman is most likely on her way here has me putting my guard up even more. I remind myself I’ve not lost a client yet. My eyes catch on my dog tag tattoo, but I refuse to linger there. On the one person I failed. Everyone tells me it wasn’t my fault. Everyone’s lying when they say it.
Sighing, I pop a stick of gum in my mouth and slip my phone back in my pocket. Clinging to the few shadows and noting the closest neighbor’s house, I finish checking the perimeter for anything off. I’ve done this loop several times since I showed up at Clover’s home the other night, but I like to refresh my memory daily.
When I step back inside, Clover has her back to me, having a hushed conversation on the phone.
“Daddy, I really think it’ll be fine. She’s probably still in California. Besides, I have a gun. I can defend myself.”
I pause, not wanting to eavesdrop, but also . . . okay, yes, maybe I want to eavesdrop.
She’s quiet for a moment, one hand on her hip, the other holding her phone to her ear. An exhausted sigh leaks out of her, causing my heart to ache at the sound. “No, I get that, but—” Her head rolls back and she gazes at the ceiling. “Are you sure it was her?” Her shoulders sink. “Yeah. No, you and Mom don’t need to come. You’ll mess up your recording schedule.”
Her dejected posture has me wishing I could go to her and comfort her somehow .
“Yeah, he’s been fine.” She huffs out a tight laugh. “No. He’s been respectful.” Exhaling a frustrated breath, she rubs her forehead. “Seriously Daddy, if you’re not going to trust the company you hired, you might as well get on a plane and fly out here. But I promise, Mr. Payne has been completely professional and—”
At that moment she whirls around, her eyes meeting mine. Red stains her cheeks as her eyes widen in panic. “Uh . . . Daddy, I’ll call you back later. Love you.”
I cross my arms and lean against the wall. “And?”
She blinks rapidly. “And, what?”
“I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation. Sounded like you were singing my praises to your dad.”
She snorts. “Or I was lying to keep him and my mom from flying out here for no reason.”
My gaze is intent as I study her. “No, I don’t think so. What else were you going to say about me?”
“I was going to tell him that I don’t want to murder you every second of the day, but you’re really making me change my mind.”
A smirk tugs at my lips. “I’m wearing you down.”
She rolls her eyes and heads into the other room. I’ve been respectful of her space and don’t want to ruin things now, but she’d want to be updated on the case.
Following her, I say, “So, my boss texted with an update.”
Clover stops and turns around. “That Angie’s been spotted near Wyoming? ”
I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah. Bex—our P.I.—traced her credit card to a couple locations.”
Her eyebrow raises. “Is that even legal?”
“Let’s just say we keep our clients safe and leave it at that.” Rock is typically a rule follower unless it puts people in danger. Most of us at Obsidian have seen what happens when you have to go through all the red tape to get anything done. If it means we have to bend the rules every now and then to keep someone safe, then we do.
Clover’s eyes narrow slightly as she digests my words. Thankfully, she doesn’t argue. Rolling her lips inward, she hesitantly meets my eyes. “You think she’s coming for me?” Her voice is small, and an overwhelming longing to wrap her in my arms and shield her from all of this overtakes me.
I shove it away, crossing my arms instead. “It’s likely.”
Nodding, she raises trembling fingers to tuck a curl behind her ear. “You know, I left Hollywood to get away from all this. Of course, it’s my luck that it follows me. I mean, it was bound to happen right? I always thought it would be a rabid fan or sleazy tabloid columnist looking for their next piece.” She laughs, but there’s nothing pleasant about it. It’s part bitter, part desperate, with a dash of maniacal. “But no. It’s a woman I’ve known for years. I used to babysit her boys. She even spent Christmas with us last year after her husband left her.”
Her breathing is rapid as I step cautiously toward her, noting the way her hands are shaking uncontrollably. She’s spiraling .
I touch her arm lightly and breathe a prayer of thanks when she doesn’t flinch away. “Hey Love, why don’t we go sit down.”
Her eyes are glazed over as she attempts to suck in a breath. “Can’t . . . ca—breathe.”
Praying I’m not making a mistake, I place both of my hands on her arms and rub up and down in an effort to soothe her. “Shh . . . I know. Listen, just breathe with me, okay? Focus on my breaths.”
I suck in an exaggerated breath before exhaling slowly. She watches my mouth as I breathe deeply again and then let it out. After a moment, she begins to mimic me, her breathing growing steadier.
“Tell me five things you see,” I say quietly, continuing to guide her breathing.
Her gaze bounces around, trying to latch on to something. “The wall.”
My lip twitches. “Okay, what else?”
“The picture on the wall.” She glances behind me. “The door.”
“Good. Two more.”
Her eyes meet mine. “Your eyes.” Warmth floods my chest until she adds, “And the rest of your stupid face.”
I smirk. “I think you like the way my stupid face looks.”
“You wish.”
Yup. She’s coming back down. “Okay, tell me four things you can feel.”
“The floor.” Her hand twists at her T-shirt. “My shirt.” Touching her hair and face, she says, “My hair and skin. ”
Before I can register what she’s doing, her fingers are gliding across my beard. It’s barely a whisper of a touch, but it lights something inside me. “Your beard.” Her words are soft as she drops her hand, her cheeks turning pink.
I’ll have to dissect this once I’m not trying to keep her from having a full-blown panic attack.
“Three things you hear.” I rub my hands down her arms again, surprised she hasn’t moved away from my touch. But I’m not one to complain.
“Your voice. The air conditioner.” She pauses, listening intently. “The mail truck.”
“Two things you smell.”
“Cinnamon.” Her gaze flicks to mine before darting away.
“My gum,” I reply, giving it an exaggerated smack. “Last one.”
“Um . . . my hair gel.” Ah. So that’s why her hair always smells of coconut.
“Good. How are you feeling now?”
Inhaling a fortifying breath, she replies, “Better.”
“Okay. What do you need from me?” Reluctantly, I drop my hands, because if I continue to hold her it won’t be for the sake of helping her regain composure.
Her shoulders sink, and she presses her fingers into her temple. “I think I’m going to lie down, actually. Panic attacks always leave me with a migraine.” Looking up at me, her lips lift in the faintest of smiles. I’m not even sure I would call it a smile. More like a not-scowl. “Thanks for helping me through that.” She wraps her arms around herself, a slight frown twisting her lips. “They don’t always ease off that quickly.”
My heart squeezes knowing she’s gone through that before, and for longer. “Go rest. Take a bubble bath. Read a book. Nap. I’ve got everything covered in here.”
She studies me a moment, then dips her head and walks out of the room.
Running a hand through my hair, I grab a mug and refill my coffee before heading to the living room. I set the mug on the coffee table, my fingers tapping my thigh as I look around. I need to be quiet so Clover can rest after that panic attack. But, man, I’m restless.
I could borrow one of her books. I browse through her bookshelf, pulling out a few and reading the blurbs on the back. My fingers graze over the spines of a collector’s edition of Anne of Green Gables . I smile. She and Mom would get along really well if her book collection is any indication. Clover has so many books that I’m having to pull two or three out at a time because they’re jammed in so tight. Maybe Holt and I can come over one day and build her some custom shelving.
I jolt. Where did that idea come from?
Still, we technically can do that. And as I tug at three books at once, I know that unless she outright refuses, I’m going to. An editor and booklover like her needs more space for the books that obviously bring her so much joy.
I finally get the books free but realize one is a small, fabric binder. My brow puckers as I flip it open, expecting to find family recipes or old photographs inside. Instead, it’s a screenplay or script of some sort.
“Huh.” I skim the first sentence, the story immediately drawing me in. Has this been produced at a theater somewhere? Or possibly made into a movie?
Before I know what’s happening, I’m several pages in. I have no idea how much time passes as I get lost in the story. Until suddenly—
“What do you think you’re doing?”