Page 1 of The Bodyguard's Bookworm
1
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.”
