Chapter 1
Lucy
He’s here. Again. In the same spot as the last three days, sitting with his back to the corner so he has a full view of Café Tomé. Every so often, he glances up from his tablet, scans the diner, and goes back to reading. He’s probably memorized the layout and decor by now.
Wooden tables and cozy upholstered seats cover the space.
Hydroponic plants in brightly patterned ceramic pots hang from the ceiling above him. I’m sure he knows exactly how many. Behind me looms a blackboard wall filled with elaborate chalk drawings and an extensive menu of coffees, teas, pastries, and sandwiches. He’s probably got that memorized too.
Servers bustle throughout the diner, greeting customers and delivering orders. White ceramic mugs clink against saucers. Steam hisses from the industrial espresso machine behind the counter, infusing the air with the aroma of coffee, and the door jingles every time someone saunters in.
Sally and Diana, two of my fellow servers, think “the man in the corner” is a journalist or coffee critic. Mike and Patrick, the guys who cook, peg him as a book publisher. Jerri, the owner of this quaint Brooklyn establishment, says FBI agent.
Not a single one of them suspects that he’s my bodyguard.
A young mother with a baby on her hip and a toddler at her side sets her purse on the empty table beside him. A closer glimpse of her new neighbor has her snatching her purse and tugging the toddler to another table.
I don’t blame her. Intimidation wafts from this man like stink off bro-dudes after a week at Burning Man.
Whenever he glances my way, goose bumps erupt over my arms. I can’t shake my anxiety, which always spikes in his presence.
The man is unnerving, not to mention dangerous. And his presence aggravates me.
The fact that he’s also gorgeous just makes him even more aggravating.
Callum Kavanagh. My bodyguard. He has dark auburn waves, cropped short and practical, an iron-strong jaw, and an arrow-straight nose that draws attention to a moody mouth that’s always tipped into a semi-permanent frown.
His green eyes, observant and cold, remind me of uranium glass. Overall, though, his tough features and calm, thoughtful expression do a fine job of hiding the more infuriating points of his personality.
My gaze travels to the faded scar along the right side of his jaw. Which, of course, only adds to his mysterious aura and amplifies his attractiveness.
His face alone would be distracting, but that face on top of that body is a whole other story. The man stands a couple of inches over six feet. Powerful, lean muscle packs an athletic build. He’s broad-shouldered and brawny and carries himself with surprising grace.
And my personal weakness? The man has style.
Callum dresses in tailored suits that love his body, conceal his weapons, and allow ease of movement. High-quality but understated watches. Nothing too flashy. When he walks anywhere, all purposeful and alert and ready for anything, he almost prowls.
He’s the kind of guy who radiates natural authority. He always appears calm and unbothered and in control, and he does all this while still exuding menace.
I’ve spent enough time around lethal men to recognize one in the wild.
Fear drips down my spine, and for an instant, the memories threaten to escape.
My own scream echoes through my mind. The ghost of calloused, unyielding hands grabbing my wrists.
A rough, strong body pinning me down. Hot breath against my ear.
Fiery pain. Humiliation. Pleading for my freedom but wanting to die.
I squeeze the handle of the display case until pain buzzes through my palm. The momentary hurt gives me the strength to shove the ugly thoughts away.
It’s over, Lucy.
That ordeal is finished. And so are the people responsible. Maybe with one awful exception.
I swallow, hard and uncomfortably, before straightening my shoulders.
So what? I survived. No looking back. Only moving forward.
No point in thinking about any of that again until it’s time to testify.
Besides, that guy who’s always ordering black coffee and leaving generous tips? He isn’t out to abduct me. He’s just here to intimidate our customers and drive me insane by stalking me to death.
Even after I insisted that I didn’t want or need a bodyguard.
Freaking Maya.
I love my sister. Don’t get me wrong. But she couldn’t have found a more annoying man to protect me if she’d tried.
The first time he showed up at the diner, introduced himself, and explained his presence, I told him, promptly but politely, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Which got me absolutely nowhere. And unfortunately, my rude attempts to dissuade and deter him since then haven’t worked either. Neither has pleading with Maya to call off her watchdog. In fact, she said that, if not for Callum, she’d leave her study abroad program and return home.
Frustration scalds my chest.
I don’t want my sister to give up Italy just to babysit me. God knows she’s already spent most of her life taking care of me. No one deserves to go off on their own adventure more than she does.
That’s why I eventually relented and agreed to let Callum trail me like a big scary stray dog. But that still doesn’t mean I want him here. He makes me feel uncomfortable. Vulnerable. Weak. Like I’m losing my independence.
Sally bumps my elbow with hers, clinking her armful of plates and glasses. “Could you go see if that guy’s okay? Get him another coffee?”
I bite back a snappy no. She has no clue Callum’s a giant thorn in my side. “I’d love to.”
“You’re the best.” She flashes me a million-dollar smile and heads into the kitchen, her high black ponytail swishing away.
Rolling my shoulders back and plastering a confident expression on my face, I weave through tables using the self-assured swagger I normally reserve for potential clients.
He raises his head, observing me with a silent intensity that brushes shivers along my spine.
No, Lucy. Absolutely not. Attraction is out of the question.
Too bad my body somehow missed that memo.
Propping a hand on my hip, I cock my head in a casual but flattering pose. “See something you like, or are you here to meet your daily reading goal?”
“I’ll take another coffee.” His deep voice carries more than a hint of Irish brogue. “Thanks for asking.” Then he all but dismisses me by returning to his tablet.
Asshole.
A few minutes later, I return with a fresh carafe of piping-hot dark roast. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be watching me, you seem awfully engrossed.”
Callum glances up with an arched eyebrow but otherwise appears annoyingly unperturbed. “It almost sounds like you want me to watch you.”
“Fuck off.”
Both of his eyebrows fly up. “Is that any way to speak to customers?”
“You’re not a real customer.” I lower my voice when I spot Jerri coming in. “You’re a coffee mooch and a colossal pain in my ass.”
Instead of commenting, he peruses my body, beginning with my comfortable but well-worn sneakers and ending at my purple-streaked hair.
“What’s wrong?” I slap the carafe onto the table. “Never seen purple hair before?”
“Oh, I’ve seen it.” He drains the last bit of coffee from his mug and pushes it toward me. “But usually, people with colorful hair have sunshiny personalities to match. Either that, or they’re dying for attention.”
The faintest hint of a sneer leaves no question that he lumps me into the second category.
Every single hair on my body bristles.
Dick nozzle. You know nothing about me or my less-than-sunshiny personality.
Fuming, I plant my hands on my hips. “You know what? If you’re going to shadow me, can’t you do it from, like, the actual shadows? Outside? Or better yet, from another county?”
“And miss all the action?”
I shoot a pointed look at the other customers. “Do you mean the two grandpas playing chess by the door or the nanny with three children eating grilled cheese sandwiches over by the record player? Pretty sure the only threat in here is you.”
Callum’s green eyes meet mine. “Why don’t you go direct some of that sunshine at the rest of the crowd and let me do my job? Maybe they’ll give you that attention you’re so desperate for.”
Static electricity crackles beneath my skin.
I can’t stop myself from smiling as I lift the carafe and purposefully miss his mug by an inch, spilling coffee onto the table and splattering his hand in the process.
I wait for the satisfaction of his reaction. Hearing him curse. Seeing him flinch. Watching as he reels back from the mess I’ve orchestrated, caught off guard.
Except…he gives me nothing. No reaction. No satisfaction either.
Even spilling hot coffee on him fails to get a rise.
He remains calm and collected. Completely unbothered as he uses his napkin to mop dark roast off his hand.
Now I just feel like a cat who pissed outside the litter box on purpose.
With guilt trickling through my system, I leave the carafe on the table and hurry away before I start to apologize. I don’t want to exchange one more word with that…that…robot in a three-piece suit.