Page 114 of The Bodyguard's Fall

“If you move and try to make me miss, you have to clean up yourself,” I warned, making him laugh before I shoved the bite into his mouth.

We went on like this for a while. I lost the first couple of games but then hit a winning streak with four in a row.

“Alright, one more game. It’s getting too sweet,” Tate said, leaning back in his chair. “I should have bought a chocolate one too.”

“‘Cause more sugar is always the answer.”

He grinned. “Glad we agree.”

“Winner takes all?” I asked.

“Winner takes all,” he confirmed.

The cards were dealt. The smack talk was smacking.

And I, Liv Rawlins Walk—Liv Rawlins—won.

“So how many wins was that for me?” I asked, leaning back in my chair with a sigh. “Seven? Eight?”

He was smiling as he loaded up the fork before turning toward me. We’d gotten the rhythm of this down by now. I opened up my mouth as he maneuvered closer. But just before the fork met my lips, it moved to the left, leaving a streak of frosting across my cheek.

I gasped, moving my hand to my cheek.

“Oops,” Tate said.

He didn’t look sorry. And I told him so.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

He pushed back from the table and rounded it, his movements unhurried, almost as if time had slowed. When he stopped in front of me, he held out his hand.

I swallowed. Every instinct told me accepting it was a terrible idea.

I slipped my hand into his anyway.

He drew me to my feet, never breaking eye contact. Then, with agonizing slowness, he closed the distance between us until I was pressed against him. My breath caught as tension hummed in the narrow space separating us, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could feel it.

Somewhere in the background, his phone buzzed on the table.

We paid it no mind.

Standing at the edge of the table, wrapped completely in his arms with my palms resting against his chest, his lips brushed the corner of my mouth.

A quiet gasp escaped me. Another kiss. Then another.

Slowly, he traced the shape of my lips with his until he fully captured them.

His kiss was everywhere and all at once. My breath caught as his thumbs brushed lightly along my ribcage. The warmth of him, the strength of his arms around me, the way he held me like I was something worth protecting—it all blurred together until the world around us disappeared.

Suddenly, Tate pulled back with hooded eyes, his troubled gaze roaming my face. He’d opened his mouth to speak when the startling sound of shattering glass to our left tore through our quiet moment like a scream in the night.

Plot Twist: Kiss interruptions are the worst.

Tate whipped around, situating himself so that I was behind him, one hand out to keep me back and the other holding a gun. In a matter of seconds, we’d both assessed the situation. A large rock, the size of a football, had crashed through the window by the table, narrowly missing us. The glass had shattered.

Tate made his way to the window, peering out into the dark where we heard the faint sound of footsteps crunching on gravel.

Tate swore, grabbed my arm, and maneuvered us toward the stairs leading to the basement.