Chapter 7
We’ve been here for three days and I’m already developing a twitch in my left eye, one that only appears when I’m actively suppressing the urge to strangle a client.
Or kiss them. With Devyn Martin’s innate ability to push my buttons, the distinction between those impulses has become alarmingly blurred.
The afternoon sun beats down on the back of my neck, and sweat is beginning to soak through my black tactical shirt as I walk the perimeter of the property to check the newly installed cameras and test the motion sensors we added along the eastern fence.
The landscape near the gate is showing signs of stress, and I make a mental note to adjust the irrigation schedule; dead plants will create sightline issues we hadn’t accounted for.
As I adjust the camera covering the call box, I spot Devyn emerging from the side entrance of the house, moving with a confidence that only comes from someone who has spent years being photographed from every conceivable angle.
The wide-legged jeans she’s wearing sit low on her hips, the kind of cut that somehow manages to look both effortlessly casual and deliberately styled.
Above them, a cropped, sage-green button-down shirt reveals a strip of her tanned, toned midriff.
Chunky heels click against the paved walkway, adding four inches to her height and completely ruining her center of gravity if she needed to run.
She walks toward the garage, and I follow.
I’m silent, my steps muted on the grass, my shadow stretching long behind me.
She is oblivious to my approach. Of course she is.
Three days under my protection and she still has no regard for the situational awareness I tried to explain during our initial security briefing.
She meanders around her own property like she’s strolling through a park, completely indifferent to her surroundings, lost in whatever thoughts are occupying that beautiful, infuriating head of hers.
Devyn walks through the open garage door toward the sleek, silver coupe parked in the first bay.
I recognize the model immediately—the Aston Martin DB11—and my jaw tightens.
With its hand-stitched leather interior, V8 engine that purrs like a predator, and lines that belong in a museum of modern art, it’s a beautiful machine.
It’s also a death trap for someone in her position.
That cute little sports car is too small and low to the ground.
The tires look like they were designed for a racetrack on a dry summer’s day, not for evasive maneuvers or rough terrain.
If someone wanted to force her off the road, this car would crumple like aluminum foil.
If she needed to escape a threat on foot, she’d have to crawl out of it like a contortionist before attempting her getaway in four-inch heels.
She reaches into her bag—a ridiculously oversized leather tote slung over her shoulder—and produces a key fob. The car chirps and its lights flash before she pulls open the driver’s side door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” My voice cuts through the quiet of the garage. It is deeper than I intend and rougher than necessary, though its effect is immediate and deeply satisfying.
Devyn shrieks—a high, startled sound that echoes off the walls—jumping out of her skin with her hand flying to her chest as she spins around. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is in a perfect O of shock. “Jesus!” she gasps, her breathing ragged.
I step into the garage, letting the shadows swallow me as I move closer. I repeat myself, slower this time, letting each word land with deliberate weight. “I said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’”
The fear evaporates from her expression, replaced by a familiar, infuriating defiance that has become her default setting around me.
Her shoulders square, and her chin lifts as she crosses her arms over her chest, which does interesting things to the cropped shirt that I am trying desperately not to focus on.
She recovers quickly, I’ll give her that.
“Shopping,” she chirps, like it’s as obvious as telling me the sky is blue.
I close the distance between us in three strides and pluck the key fob from her hand before she can react. “Like hell you are.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow into dangerous slits. “Give them back.”
I lift my arm, holding the fob above her head, well out of her reach.
She’s tall—five eight, maybe five nine in those ridiculous heels—but at six four, my advantage is substantial.
She makes a grab for it anyway, her body pressing against mine in her attempt, and the contact is a jolt of electricity through my sternum.
She smells fucking amazing, like freshly picked flowers and coconut.
The combination is intoxicating in a way that makes me want to stumble backward and step closer all at once.
“Gunnar.” Her normal velvety voice drops to a warning tone. “Give me my keys back.”
“These?” I dangle them just out of reach, watching her face flush with frustration. “These keys to the vehicle you’re not authorized to operate without an escort?”
“Authorized?” She laughs, the sound completely devoid of humor. “This is my car. My house. My life. You don’t get to tell me what I’m authorized to do.”
“I absolutely do.” I lower my arm but keep the keys firmly in my grip, tucking them into my pocket where she can’t reach them.
She’s welcome to try to retrieve them, but one of us will enjoy the consequences far more than the other.
“It’s literally my job to tell you what you’re authorized to do.
And you’re not authorized to leave this property without notifying your security detail.
And over my dead body will it be in a sports car with the structural integrity of a soda can. ”
“It’s not a soda can.”
“And somehow, you’re still missing the point.”
She steps close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin.
She’s angry, truly angry. She glares up at me in challenge, the tiny flecks of green in her otherwise-hazel eyes sparkling like emeralds.
This feisty little brat is testing me, seeing just how far she can push before I break.
“I need to go shopping,” she insists, struggling to keep her tone from sounding combative.
Trying and failing, but trying, nonetheless.
“I have an event coming up, and I need a dress.”
“Send someone.”
“I want to go myself.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
She makes a grab for my pocket, and I catch her wrist before she makes contact.
Her skin is warm, her pulse fluttering rapidly beneath my thumb.
We freeze, locked in a stalemate. Her eyes drop to where I’m holding her, then back up to my face, and I see the exact moment she realizes the same thing I do—I haven’t let go.
I release her immediately, stepping away to put distance between us. “Two of us,” I rasp.
Her brows pinch together. “What?”
“Two of us go with you. We know the location in advance, so we can establish route and exit strategies. On-site, one of us stays with you at all times.” I tick off the protocol like I’m reading from a manual.“You want to go shopping? Fine. You do it my way, or we don’t do it at all.”
“Your way is ridiculous.” She throws her hands up, pacing away from me in a tight circle before spinning around. “This is insane. Five days ago, I could walk into any store in Los Angeles. I could drive my own car to my own appointments. Five days ago—”
“Five days ago, someone left you a gift taken from your own garbage,” I interrupt, my voice sharp enough to cut through her rant.
“Five days ago, you had an intruder on your property, rummaging through your trash and leaving it in the middle of your kitchen. That someone went undetected because they know your schedule, your habits, and your preferences. You were vulnerable. With us, you’re not. ”
She stops pacing, her shoulders rising and falling with her rapid breathing. The cropped shirt has ridden up slightly, revealing more of her stomach, and I have to fight to keep my gaze on her face.
Professional, controlled, and intentional.
The words I live by are currently failing me spectacularly.
“I hate this,” she huffs quietly, devoid of her usual theatrics.
“I hate feeling like a prisoner. I hate that I can’t walk to my car without being interrogated.
I hate that I have to submit my friends’ names for background checks like they’re criminals.
And I fucking hate that you’re standing there looking at me like I’m a problem instead of a person. ”
The words have no effect on me. I’ve heard them from dozens of assignments in the past. But the way she looks at me hits me square in the chest.
“I’m not looking at you like you’re a problem,” I counter.
“Then, how are you looking at me?”
The correct response is to deflect; to return to professional distance; to remind her of protocols and procedures and the thousand other things that keep me from saying what’s actually on my mind.
Like you’re infuriating.
Like you’re stubborn.
Like you’re reckless.
Like you’re brave—and stupid—as hell, going toe-to-toe with a man twice your size.
Like you’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
Curbing my thoughts, I give the correct answer. “Like I need to protect you. Even from yourself.”
She stares at me, and I observe the war happening behind her eyes again, a battle between pride and fear. “Two of you,” she repeats, her voice flat.
“Minimum.”
“And I suppose you need to follow me into the fitting room?”
“Yes. Immediately outside.”
She rolls her eyes, a gesture so petulant that it should annoy me. It doesn’t. Instead, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. She’s impossible and exhausting, but she’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in years.
“Fine,” she snaps, spinning on her heel and storming back toward the house.
Her heels clicking an angry rhythm against the pavement, and her hips swaying with indignation as she sassily calls over her shoulder, “But I’m picking the music in the car.
I hope you like Taylor Swift. I’ll be singing her entire discography loudly and off-key the entire way. ”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I deadpan, though I am intrigued.
She stops at the doorway, turning to glare at me. “Of course you wouldn’t,” she grumbles.
I pull out my phone and dial Damon when Devyn disappears into the house. “The little brat wants to go shopping. Find out where and put together a route assessment.”
“You got it.” Damon pauses before asking, “Everything okay?”
“She’s difficult.”
“Aren’t they all?” Damon laments with a dry chuckle.
Not like this one…
I scrub a hand over my jaw, my fingertips dragging through my short beard. “Either you or Jagger needs to be prepared to roll with us.”
“Copy that.”
“And Damon?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring earplugs.”