Page 10 of Billionaire Bodyguard Summer

Then she walked in, and got in the way of my drinking.

I’ve never been so relieved.

Instead of saying so, I blurt out, “You don’t give a damn about anything, do you?”

She flinches, and then hides herself from me by taking my stinking double shot and throwing it back. “Oof,” she says. She shakes her head, but I don’t know if it’s at me or the bad tequila. “That’s not true.”

I lean heavy on the counter. “Not your tequila, is it?”

“What if it isn’t?”

“Where were you?”

“At work.”

“With Harvey?”

I watch her decide whether or not she’ll answer me, a sick burn in my guts that’s not the cheap tequila alone. She’ll never be mine. Why have I deluded myself for so long?

“No,” she says.

“With who?”

“That’s enough. I don’t want to talk about work.”

“Well, my job’s to protect you. And today you wouldn’t even let me. Can we talk about that?”

She opens the refrigerator, which I’d done about a thousand times while she was gone. There was a half a forgotten omelet growing an unholy amount of fur on it in a takeout container and the most basic of condiments.

“Could you give me a fucking minute?” She swings the fridge door closed and opens the cabinet next to it. “Where are my gluten free crackers?”

“Ate ‘em,” I say. “They were terrible.”

“Jesus Christ. You ate the whole box?” She slams the cabinet shut. God, she looks beautiful when she’s mad as hell.

“Whole box? There couldn’t’ve been more than twelve in there. It was rough, but I persevered. They were like a cross between my old Catholic school Communion wafers and a fistful of gravel. I did you a favor.” I take her by the shoulder, spin her around to face me, the booze making me brave. “I’ll order food for you. What do you want?”

She doesn’t say, won’t look at me. I cradle her hand, stroke her palm with my thumb. There’s a bit of a scar. Not much. “Remember when you got all cut up in that car crash?”

She shakes her head, eyes still on the floor. “I don’t think about it.”

“I do.” I kiss her palm, and lay it against my cheek.

“Damn it, Armin,” she says. I slide my hands to her waist and rest them there loosely. One thing I learned about Mia early on is she runs at the slightest hint of enclosure.

But she’s not in a running mood. And she kisses me, hard, on the mouth. Her lips taste like the lousy tequila. They’re so soft. She pulls back and looks at me.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, really. I just need her to look less like she wants to kill me. “I only wantto protect you.” I push her hair out of her eyes, stroke a lock of it back behind one ear.

“Yeah. Me too,” she mumbles, her voice thick, expression unreadable. I wonder if she means it. It never occurred to me that she might be protecting me more than I’m protecting her. Between the booze that isn’t hers, and this shitty apartment she’d never concede to renting, there’s a lot more going on here in Sunbreak Harbor than she’s hinting at.

But then she’s tearing at my shirt, and this conversation’s over.

eight

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Mia