The Bodyguard’s Bookworm (Fixated #2)

1. Connor

CONNOR

Iturn onto Main Street with sweat cooling under my shirt and see the woman on a stepladder outside the bookstore.

Initially, I only take in the facts. Small shop.

Front window. Woman alone with a bucket at her feet and a sponge in one hand.

She’s scrubbing hard at black paint smeared across the glass, and when I get close enough to read the word, every muscle in my body locks tight.

BITCH.

The word is half gone, but there’s enough left to make my vision sharpen.

I stop on the sidewalk and scan the street.

Bakery lights on two doors down. Delivery truck near the curb.

No one loitering, no one watching too closely, no obvious threat, but obvious threats are rarely the ones that worry me most.

The woman reaches up again, stretching until the hem of her shirt lifts from the waistband of her jeans.

She’s curvy, with brunette hair twisted up at the back of her head and a body made of lush, feminine contours that almost reduce my thoughts to static.

I force my attention away from the shape of her full hips and back to the vandalized glass.

“You all right, miss?” I ask.

She startles at my voice, and the ladder wobbles.

I cross the last few feet fast and catch the side of it.

My other hand rises, ready in case she slips, but I don’t touch her.

She looks down at me with wide brown eyes, one hand gripping the top rail and the sponge dripping suds onto the pavement between us.

I nod toward the vandalized window. “Someone did that last night?”

“That would be my guess, unless the window developed an opinion about me after closing.” She climbs down the stepladder. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I disagree.”

Her gaze moves over me, taking in my size, my gym bag, my sleeveless shirt. I’m six-four and built from years in the military and the kind of work that pays me to stand between danger and whoever hired me. I’m used to quick assessments. Most people decide fast whether I make them nervous.

She doesn’t seem nervous. More wary than afraid.

“I appreciate the concern,” she says. “But I’ve got it handled.”

“What’s your name?”

One eyebrow lifts. “You always this involved in strangers’ problems?”

“Connor Rhodes.” I hold out my hand. “Now I’m not a stranger.”

Amusement tugs at her mouth. She places her hand in mine. Her skin is warm against my palm, and my body reacts like she’s done a hell of a lot more than shake my hand.

“Emi,” she says.

I release her hand before I hold on too long. “You call the police?”

“Non-emergency line. They took a report over the phone and told me I could send pictures, which I did.” She dips the sponge into the bucket again. “I’m sure the full force of justice will be here any minute with fingerprint powder and dramatic music.”

“This ever happen before?”

“No.” She starts scrubbing again, harder this time. “Usually the worst crime around here is someone shelving cookbooks in memoir.”

I can tell Emi is making light of this because she doesn’t want to make it bigger. She can pretend this is nothing. I can’t.

“I’m a bodyguard,” I say. “Private security now. Military before that. I can keep an eye on the place today.”

She stops scrubbing and slowly turns her head. “That’s very generous, but no.”

“You’re here alone.”

“I own a bookstore. That’s kind of the atmosphere.”

“Someone targeted you.”

“Someone targeted my window,” she says, firmer now. “And I’m not saying it’s okay. I’m saying I can handle it.”

I believe her. She doesn’t look helpless. She looks annoyed, capable, and stubborn. But capable and safe aren’t the same thing.

“All right,” I say.

Suspicion narrows her eyes. “That was too easy.”

“I need books, though.”

“You need books,” she repeats, glancing from my gym bag to my face.

“A lot of them.” I look past her into the shop, where shelves line the walls. “Might take hours.”

“Hours. Is that so.”

“Maybe all day.”

Her lips press together, fighting a smile. “I open in ten minutes. If you’re genuinely buying books, you’re welcome to browse. If you hover over me and intimidate customers, I’m kicking you out.”

She finishes the glass while I stand nearby, watching the street and pretending not to notice the way her top pulls across her breasts when she reaches. I’ve held focus under more pressure than this, but Emi has me working for it.

When the last of the paint comes off, she wipes the glass dry and steps down. I take the stepladder before she can, folding it with one hand. She opens her mouth, probably to argue, then seems to decide a ladder isn’t worth the fight.

Inside, the bookstore is narrow and deep, with shelves along both walls, a counter near the back, and handwritten recommendation cards tucked beneath tidy stacks. A faded armchair sits near the front window. Everything about the place feels cared for.

Emi disappears through a door behind the counter to put the supplies away. I check the space with the attention I’d use on any job. Front entrance. Back hallway. Restroom. Employees-only door. Rear exit into an alley. No cameras that I can see. No visible alarm keypad.

By the time Emi returns, I’m standing in the mystery section with a paperback in my hand.

“Finding everything okay?” she asks, coming around the counter with a chipped mug.

“I’ve been here two minutes.”

“Retail script. I’m legally required to say it.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

She takes a sip from her mug and studies me over the rim. “A siren goes off in the back and the ghost of customer service past appears.”

The bell over the door rings, and Emi turns away to greet the first customer. I watch the shift in her immediately. She becomes open, easy, welcoming. She knows the woman by name, asks about a book club, and recommends two novels while moving effortlessly around the shop.

For the next few hours, I learn Emi in pieces.

She hums when she restocks. She remembers which customers hate sad endings, which ones only buy hardcovers, and which ones need a chair brought over because standing too long hurts their knees.

When a man complains that a romance display is taking up too much space near the front, she smiles and tells him joy has earned the square footage.

Every interaction adds another problem to the one already forming in my chest.

Around noon, she finds me in the local history section holding a book I haven’t read a word of. “Is this how you always shop?” she asks, reaching past me to straighten a book someone left crooked.

“I’m comparing options,” I say.

“You’ve compared half the store.”

“I’m very comprehensive.”

She laughs. It’s the prettiest damn sound I’ve ever heard.

Then the bell rings again, and she steps back. “I should get that.”

“I’ll be here.”

She smirks. “I gathered.”

She walks away, and I force myself to turn toward the shelf instead of watching the sway of her hips. My body wants things it has no business wanting.

This is insane.

The thing is, I’ve felt insane before. Combat does it. Fear does it. Grief does it. This isn’t any of those. This feels certain and absolute, settling into places in me I thought had gone permanently quiet.

By late afternoon, I’ve bought six books, though Emi only rings up four because she insists two are damaged.

“That corner is barely bent,” I say, looking at the paperback in her hand.

She angles it toward the light. “It’s wounded.”

“I’ll pay full price.”

“You’ll pay what the owner charges.”

Her fingers come in contact with mine when she hands me the bag, and we both notice. She pulls back first, but not quickly.

At six o’clock, she flips the sign to Closed. The street outside has darkened into evening, and the window catches the reflection of passing cars. Emi counts the register while I stand near the front.

“You really stayed all day,” she says, stacking bills in the drawer.

“Told you I had a lot of shopping to do.”

“You bought six books.” She closes the drawer and rests both hands on the counter. “You know, you don’t have to keep pretending this was about books.”

“It was partly about books.”

“And the other part?” she asks.

I meet her eyes across the store. “You.”

Her breath catches. There’s surprise in her expression. Caution too. Interest as well, and that nearly puts me on my knees.

She comes around the counter slowly, keys in hand. “That’s direct.”

“I don’t like leaving room for confusion.”

“No,” she says, studying me. “I’m getting that.”

“I also don’t like walking away from an unresolved threat.” I move toward her but stop near the front table, leaving just enough space between us. “Someone came here last night and put that word on your window, and I don’t trust that kind of man to stop just because glass cleaner exists.”

Her gaze drops, then lifts again. “Why are you doing all of this? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough to want to.”

Emi stills, her thumb tracing the edge of the keys.

I’ve never looked at someone after a single day and known, deep in my bones, that my life has just changed shape. But I know it now.

“Have dinner with me, Emi,” I say.