Chapter 23
Callum
Lucy Marlow needs to quit kissing me, or she’s going to start something neither of us has the strength to stop.
After I’ve parked the car, I text a guy to go water her plants before joining the rest of the fashion circus as they invade a small, high-end boutique. Yes, I’m apparently the garden room guard now too. What the actual fuck…
Wow, this place is something else. Racks of designer clothing populate the floor, framed by walls with bright modern art canvases. Makeshift dressing rooms accommodate the models who traipse in and out sporting different styles they’ve put together on their own.
I think anyway. I’m not really paying attention. With Lucy here, the other women barely even register.
That kiss… I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with her. Will every single half-decent conversation from this point forward conclude the same way? Will we continue to switch from fighting like cats and dogs to making out every chance we get?
I grab the back of my neck. If Darren ever learns about my behavior with Veronika’s friend, I’m screwed. He hired me as Lucy’s bodyguard because I’m always professional. Always perfect. I don’t fuck up. Especially not like this.
I convince myself it won’t happen again. Once Lucy sashays out of that little changing room, though, I have to admit that I’m deluding myself. I’m fucked.
My gaze tracks her every move. Through each wardrobe change. While the makeup artists paint her face. While the stylists brush her pretty purple waves…
Her type of beauty is unnatural. No woman should be that gut-wrenchingly gorgeous, period. Every time Lucy rises from the makeup chair, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from pushing her into a changing room, ripping her clothes off, and fucking her up against the wall.
That stupid kiss in the car revved up my hormones, distracting me when I need to be bracing myself for a stunt like the one she pulled at her first audition. While she does seem calmer today, I can’t relax. The moment I do, she’ll catch me off guard.
I watch her, wondering if I’m imagining the way she’s softened a little. I don’t think so.
Her sharp edges seem blunted, her wicked blades dulled.
Even in front of the camera, her vulnerability shows in her poses. The photographers eat it up.
Out on the street, one of the photographers—the guy who snapped her winning shot last night—tosses a series of directions at her, and she incorporates each one in a flash, no problem, no hesitation.
“Go, Lucy. Stand in the water.” He gestures to a concrete fountain in the center of a pedestrian square, where shining droplets fall from an angel’s hand in an endless loop.
“On it!” She marches straight for the fountain’s lip and climbs in.
Working the emerald gown for all she’s worth, Lucy strikes several poses in the water. Within moments, her splashing draws an audience. A live, organic crowd of regular people on the Manhattan streets.
I shift to the right to get a better view of the fountain and perimeter beyond. All the cameras are focused on Lucy, including the phones in the street.
Even pedestrians walking by on their way back from lunch can sense her potential stardom. She sparkles with that indescribable quality that lures people into her orbit.
Just another reminder that you don’t belong in her glamorous world.
The thought barges through my mind uninvited. While my muscles tingle with possessive irritation, I can’t deny the truth.
I don’t belong in Lucy Marlow’s universe. Not outside of my role as her protector.
My assignment requires me to stand on the sidelines and watch her back, front, and center. That’s all. So why does bitter disappointment clog the back of my throat?
A few flirty conversations, a couple of steamy kisses, and now I’m considering a boyfriend application?
What’s wrong with me?
The threat of danger grows as more people enter the square, skirting around the fountain in droves with their smartphones flashing and pointing.
Thanks to the upcoming holiday weekend, people are everywhere.
Lucy plays to the crowd, showcasing her beauty and sense of fun.
The photographer twists like a pretzel trying to capture all her most flattering angles.
My shoulders tense enough to bounce a quarter off them.
There are too many variables. The crowd, the models, the production company. My stupid fucking feelings and intrusive thoughts. Lucy’s smile, her nascent star power drawing people closer and closer. I can’t monitor everyone. Can’t watch them all.
After another minute, my careful self-control finally shatters into pieces.
I pace across the square, interrupting the photographer’s shot to grab Lucy’s attention.
“Out.” From inside the aqueous basin, which is a foot off the ground, and in her five-inch heels, she towers over me. I much prefer our usual height difference, her pretty face all pinched with adorable fury when she’s glaring up—
Focus, Cal.
I expect her to bristle at my tone. Instead, she flashes me a smile that damn near stops my already unsettled heart.
The sense of freedom and ease oozing off her is contagious. No wonder’s she’s attracted such a crowd.
A playful grin brightens her face as she splashes water in my direction. “Come get me, big guy.” A tease.
Luring me into her orbit like a spider lures insects into her sticky, silken web.
That won’t work today.
Without slowing my pace, I climb into the fountain, dunking my combat boots into the shin-high water. From this spot, we’re eye to eye.
Wading in deeper, I reach for her hands.
The massive gown adds weight, but I can still lift her into my arms, princess-style, with ease. Cradled to my chest, I carry her to the fountain’s edge in silence.
She just watches me, arms looped around my neck.
I watch her back.
For that snapshot in time, no one else exists except the two of us. Then someone cheers and others join in, puncturing our little bubble. The crowd.
Christ. What the hell am I doing?
After giving her so much flack over keeping a low profile, it would be the height of irony for us to go viral over me doing my job.
When I set her down on the cement beyond the fountain’s edge, Lucy doesn’t immediately step away. I have a perfect view of the water droplets clinging to her lashes while her pupils dilate beneath them.
I grit my teeth. In the fading sun, the green dress clings to her form perfectly.
Whipping off my jacket, I use it to cover her body. While I’m about two seconds from yelling at these fuckers to quit staring before I rip their eyeballs clean from their sockets, Lucy’s completely unbothered by all the attention.
After adjusting my jacket around her shoulders, she smiles, waves to the crowd, and blows a few kisses.
In a brief moment of insanity, I imagine grabbing her around the waist and tossing her over my shoulder. Carrying her to the car, driving off, and finding a nice secluded alley to rip that dress off her frame and sink inside her until she forgets all about these ogling strangers.
Until I’m the only thing she remembers.
She tilts her face up to me—bright, beautiful, a single dimple in her cheek as she smiles again—and I pinch the bridge of my nose.
This woman will be the death of me.