Chapter 3
Sabrina
I stare at the man standing in my classroom like he’s just told me the sky is green.
“Um… what?” I ask.
He doesn’t blink. Not once.
“I’m your bodyguard,” he says calmly.
“You?”
“Me.”
I laugh.
It comes out wrong—too sharp, too loud.
“I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
“There hasn’t,” he replies. “Sigma International Security was hired to protect you.”
That finally lands.
My stomach drops.
“Who hired you?” I demand. “Because I didn’t hire anyone. And I definitely didn’t ask for—” I gesture vaguely at all of him, “—this.”
He studies me like I’m a puzzle he’s already halfway solved.
“You’re pretty important to some pretty important people, Miss Rosetto.”
“I don’t know anyone like that,” I say, but pause because actually, I do.
And when it hits me—and it hits me kinda hard—that I have students from prominent families, then I get it.
“Oh,” I whisper.
Well.
“Do you need a moment?”
I frown in response.
Because what the actual hell?
A thousand thoughts crash into me at once, and none of them are helpful.
Mostly, I’m suddenly, irrationally annoyed.
Because this man—this stupidly handsome, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed action hero of a human being—has walked into my life on the one day I was already questioning all of my choices.
Tonight, I’m supposed to be at a church-run speed dating event in the parish basement.
I’m wearing my nicest sweater.
I even practiced my most polite smile.
But right now? I feel like a fraud because here I am pretending I’m not desperate or tired or lonely.
And now this guy just waltzes in here to witness my ultimate humiliation?
Of fucking course he’s here today of all days.
Why? Clearly, it’s because the universe hates me. That’s why it sent a walking testosterone bomb into my classroom when I’m already spiraling about my love life.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I refuse to let my brain go there.
I’m alive. I’m here. My students are safe. I have a job I love and a classroom full of tiny humans who think I’m magic because I can read The Very Hungry Caterpillar in silly voices.
So what if I haven’t had a good date in over three years?
So what if the last man I trusted broke my heart and my brother barely exists in my life anymore?
I straighten my spine.
I am not going to melt just because this man looks like he stepped out of an action movie—the brooding, muscled-up hero type who absolutely makes my knees feel a little weak.
Professional. Boundaries.
“Well, first, allow me to thank you, Mr. Montego,” I say coolly, deliberately using his last name like a shield. “But it’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Not anger. Not amusement.
Certainty.
“I know you will,” he says quietly. “Because I’ll be here.”
My heart stutters.
I hate that it does.
I hate that his voice—low and steady and confident—makes me feel something dangerously close to safe.
And I really hate that a part of me wonders if this whole speed dating thing was doomed from the start.
Because standing in front of me is a man who looks like trouble.
And somehow, impossibly? He looks exactly like what I didn’t know I needed.
The classroom door swings open with a dramatic gust of energy that could only belong to one person.
“Hey Sabrina!” Mary chirps, barreling in like a miniature hurricane, face buried in her phone and tote bag flapping against her hip.
“The diocese sent a message—tonight’s been moved up and will start at four because of the impending storm. Did you still wanna grab a coffee before we head downstairs?”
She doesn’t look up until the very last sentence—and when she does, she stops short so fast her voice cracks mid-syllable.
Her eyes bug out of her head as she stares at the wall of man standing between me and the coat hooks.
“Oh. Uh, maybe you started already?”
That one question is filled with at least twelve different kinds of curiosity and two types of judgment.
“Mary,” I say as calmly as possible, “this is Mr. Montego.”
“Mister Montego,” she echoes.
Her eyes narrow slightly as she takes him in from head to toe and then slowly drags her gaze back to me like we’re in a made-for-TV movie and I’ve just been caught canoodling the gardener.
I clear my throat and try to sound professional.
“He’s with—uh, private security.”
Mary lifts one perfect eyebrow.
“Oh, is he?”
Ego—ugh, Theodore, crap, I don’t know what to call him—doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny.
Instead, he gives her a small, polite nod, hands still relaxed at his sides, like he’s been in more intense standoffs, and this one isn’t even in his top fifty.
Which honestly only makes him that much more interesting.
Mary steps closer, her voice pitched just above a whisper.
“Private security, huh? For you? Since when?”
“Since someone’s been breaking into my apartment and classroom. Apparently, someone thinks I’m in danger.”
Mary’s jaw drops.
“Wait. Is this about the classroom thing last week? I told you that was weird! Didn’t I say it was weird? Didn’t I say it was, like, creepy-level weird?”
“You did, and they did it again before I arrived today,” I mutter.
“Today?” Ego asks, all business, then takes his cell out of his pocket and starts texting someone.
“So, now you have a bodyguard?” She leans in like this is the best gossip she’s gotten all year. “Is he single?”
“Mary!”
She shrugs unapologetically. “What? I’m just saying. He’s tall. He’s hot. And he looks like he could bench press a small car.”
Theodore is still typing, but he smirks. Just a little.
And I know he can hear her despite the attempt to whisper.
I rub my temples.
“We’re going to be late for the event.”
Mary grins. “Girl, if I knew this was the kind of man showing up when danger strikes, I would’ve staged a fake break-in months ago.”
I give her a look.
She grins harder.
Then, dramatically, she turns and waves at him. “Nice to meet you, Mister Montego. I’m Mary. First grade. If you ever need crayons or snacks, I’m your girl.”
“Appreciate that,” he replies, deadpan but polite.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she stage-whispers to me, heading for the door with one last pointed look. “Try not to flirt too hard.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
And now it’s just me and the bodyguard again.
I exhale slowly. “Sorry about that. She’s a lot.”
“She’s protective,” he says, surprising me.
I blink. “You think so?”
He shrugs. “Only people who care that much can get away with teasing like that.”
I look at him, really look.
And I wonder what kind of teasing he’s used to.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but I’m saved by the crackle of the PA system as Sister Veronica announces that the singles mixer will begin shortly in the church basement.
The look on Theodore Montego’s face is priceless.
“Please tell me that’s not where we’re going.”
I smirk.
“You’re my shadow now, aren’t you?”
He groans.
“Jesus wept.”
And for some reason, I’m not nearly as annoyed about this arrangement as I was ten minutes ago.