Page 3 of Sultry Bodyguard Summer

Our future career paths could’ve been predicted by those hugs.

She pats my back and eases away. “You’re safe. We’re here. How are you holding up?”

I let out a long, relieved exhale. “Okay, I guess. I came back from my morning run, went into the kitchen, and there was my coffee on the counter. I swear I didn’t pour a cup before the run. I set it to brew and left. Blake put the coffee in my angel mug, which is the only mug I brought with me. And he put in the exact amount of half-and-half. The color is perfect. How does he know how I like it?” Tears prick the backs of my eyes.

“He probably watched you prepare your coffee at a coffee shop.” Darcy glances around the foyer. “How did he bypass your alarm system?”

“I forgot to turn it on. I was juggling my headphones and finding my shoes. But I won't make that mistake again.”

Darcy turns to the man beside her. I barely registered him when they came to the door. He’s eerily still and almost blends into the background. “This is Oliver Campbell. He’s the bodyguard I was telling you about.”

He’s about a foot taller than me, probably close to six-five. His hair is dark and thick, and not too short. A navy T-shirt gives the impression of a solid physique. In dark gray joggers and running shoes, he looks like he, too, just went for a morning run.

I hold out my hand. “Thanks for coming. I’m Sienna Hopkins.”

We shake hands. He’s got light hazel eyes, almost green, and they give nothing away. In all my years of working with clients, I’ve never met anyone this impassive. I’ve also never met a man described as being “born for protection." I pictured a human condom when Darcy called him that.

He lets go of my hand after the mandatory three seconds. “I’m sorry about situation you’re facing.” The remark is compulsory and plain but delivered in a deep baritone that's innately reassuring.

“I didn't touch anything in the kitchen. It's exactly the way I found it,” I say, leading them across the parquet-floored foyer to the bright white marble and stainless-steel kitchen. It’s so unlike my kitchen in Houston with its sage cabinets and cream countertops. The best thing I can say about this kitchen is that it’s easy to clean.

And hopefully good for picking up fingerprints. So far, we haven't gotten any prints to connect Blake to the stalking incidents.

I show them over to the counter and press my fingers against the side of the mug. It’s still warm. I back off the ceramic surface like it was hot enough to burn me.

Fear claws its way up my throat. “I'm never going to feel safe here, am I? He's gotten inside. This is it. I have to find another place to start over.”

Darcy snaps on a pair of latex gloves. “Your next move is to return safely to Houston. We’re going to do the police’s work and get the evidence you need to get him off your back.”

She crouches down and looks at the mug eye-level. “I’m going to take some pictures. We’ll have to get the coffee tested to see if there’s anything in there besides coffee and half-and-half. That and a set of Blake’s prints will go a long way to getting you back to Houston.”

“You want me to tap in?” Oliver asks Darcy like he means to help her with the coffee mug evidence.

Darcy shakes her head, not raising her eyes from the mug and the countertop, like she’s appraising a rare antique. “Why don't you take a look around? Get a look at the yard and the neighbors’ yards. I wonder where Blake’s hiding that he can see her coming and going.” She looks at me. “Can you show Oliver outside?”

“Of course.” I love seeing Darcy flexing her authority and ordering this big stoic bodyguard around.

I lead Oliver out the back door. The sea breeze is infused with the jasmine and plumeria planted around the course. Golf carts and landscaping equipment buzz along with the hum of light conversation from the morning golfers.

Oliver inspects the back deck and descends the stairs to the lawn. He looks at the underside of the deck and surveys the bushes around the house. We walk past the firepit patio with the super comfy loungers to the swathe of palm trees between the yard and the eighth hole.

“The trees are supposed to keep the golf balls out, but I find them everywhere,” I say, breaking the silence.

He crosses his arms, his gaze on the fairway.

How do his partners handle the stoicism? I glance down at his left hand. No ring. I can’t hazard a guess whether he’s getting laid, which is rare for me. Usually, I can tell exactly how much sex people are having and their favorite sex acts within minutes of meeting. Oliver has stored all that information behind an impenetrable wall of blankness.

“It’s incredible how many places Blake could’ve hidden back here. You should move.” His voice is calm and controlled, barely a hint of intonation.

“I just got here. I can’t keep moving to avoid him. Besides, I need a place with the kind of security and privacy this place offers.”

“Darcy says you’re a wellness instructor?” Oliver narrows his gaze.

“Certified family therapist specializing in sexual wellness.” I articulate each word out of a maddening desire to get any kind of emotional response from Oliver.

“I have millions of social media followers. I make videos about topics related to sexual health. I also work with people who need help with their sex lives. Most of my clients are married couples who are in a rut. I show them techniques they can use to connect more intimately. Some of that work is online and some of them come to me.”

Is he taking this in? Will he ask the follow-up questions everyone asks like “what kind of techniques?” and “do you sleep with your clients?”