Chapter 4
Ego
Okay, so.
My first reaction to this assignment aside?
I’m about ninety percent sure now that this is all part of some grand cosmic design.
My client? Sabrina Rosetto.
She’s the stuff dreams are made of—mine, specifically.
Soft curves, smart eyes, sweet voice. A kindness in her that feels completely out of place in this world, with just enough snark to make her irresistible.
So, what does the universe do with this magnificent human being?
It assigns me—me—to stand guard while she attends a speed dating event.
In a fucking church basement.
Why, Jesus? Why do you hate me?
Because if one more of these pencil-neck motherfuckers looks at my curvy little goddess like they want to take a bite out of her fun bags, I will commit violence.
What? I can’t help it.
Okay, fine. I won’t kill them. I’ll just shoot a couple of them.
What? I don’t mean that literally.
Probably.
Maybe I’ll just punch one of them. Or two.
Depends how many of them wear boat shoes and try to use corny jokes about the word worship to flirt.
God help me. Seriously. I need some divine intervention here.
I’m leaning against the wall like some undercover bruiser in an after-school special, arms crossed, trying to act like I don’t want to murder everyone in a ten-foot radius of her.
But I do.
Because she’s sitting there, tight sweater, even tighter skirt, cheeks a little flushed, lip caught between her teeth as she smiles politely at the guy across from her.
He’s wearing some ugly as fuck mustard-colored shirt. And his tie has cows on it. Actual cows.
I wish I was joking.
But this guy? This actual bologna sandwich of a man? Just made her laugh.
So, naturally, I fucking hate him.
He’s number three. Or four.
I stopped counting.
I’m too busy trying not to let my fists do the talking.
But it’s hard.
So goddamn hard.
Especially when Sabrina glances over at me between dates like she knows I’m watching.
Like she’s checking to make sure I’m still there.
Her eyes land on me, and even from across the room I can see the slight arch in her brow.
A question.
A challenge.
A spark.
Fuck me, I think she likes it. Likes this.
Me. Being here. Watching.
Good, Little Girl. Because I’m not going anywhere.
Not until this job is over.
Not until the threat is neutralized.
Not until I find out who’s making her nervous enough to clutch her bag like it’s a lifeline on the way to her car.
And not until I know every damn thing about her.
Her favorite coffee.
Her bedtime routine.
The kind of panties she wears under that sexy as fuck teacher’s skirt.
I’m a professional.
But I’m also a man.
And this woman?
She’s already got me praying for forgiveness for things I haven’t even done yet.
But I will.
Damn straight, I will.
She shouldn’t even be here.
Not in some basement-turned-meat-market, sipping lukewarm coffee out of a paper cup while strangers judge her based on five minutes and a prayer.
But she came anyway.
Because she’s lonely.
Because she’s trying.
Because some idiot told her she should be out there.
And it pisses me off.
My anger isn’t directed at her though.
Never at her.
It’s at whoever made her think she had to settle for this.
It’s at whoever made her feel like she had to put herself back on the market when she should be cherished. Protected. Held so close no one could ever get close enough to hurt her again.
Because someone’s been trying. And that’s something that won’t go unanswered.
I read the reports. I know she didn’t see it at first. Not really.
She thought it was her imagination.
Keys not where she left them.
A drawer she swore she closed now hanging slightly ajar.
Files just a little bit out of order.
She second-guessed herself.
Brushed it off. Like most people do when the danger hasn’t drawn blood yet.
Until it escalated.
Until whoever-it-was got sloppy. Or cocky. Or impatient.
A broken lock on her front door.
A loose lock on the classroom window.
A cracked hinge on the cabinet where she keeps her grade book and emergency supplies.
Her bedroom drawers, forced open and rifled through.
Her favorite mug—broken
And still, the cops said it was nothing.
Maybe a student.
Maybe a janitor.
Maybe someone just looking for snacks.
Bullshit.
I’ve seen this pattern before. The slow escalation. The testing of boundaries. The quiet invasion of privacy until the victim starts questioning their own instincts.
It’s a warning. A declaration.
A threat disguised as coincidence.
Poor Angel.
So vulnerable. So alone.
But not anymore.
Not with me here.
I crack my knuckles as the next round of awkward Catholic flirting begins, and I swear, if that polyester-wearing dickhead in chair seven touches her hand one more time, I might throw him through a stained-glass window.
Not really.
Probably.
I take a breath and reel myself in.
Because I can’t scare her. I can’t make her run.
Not yet.
My job is to guard her. My purpose is to keep her safe.
But me?
I already know.
She’s not just an assignment.
In fact, I’m pretty damn sure the teacher’s mine.