Page 17 of Gunnar
“I want to go myself.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
She makes a grab for my pocket, and I catch her wrist before she makes contact. Her skin is warm, her pulse fluttering rapidly beneath my thumb. We freeze, locked in a stalemate. Her eyes drop to where I’m holding her, then back up to my face, and I see the exact moment she realizes the same thing I do—I haven’t let go.
I release her immediately, stepping away to put distance between us. “Two of us,” I rasp.
Her brows pinch together. “What?”
“Two of us go with you. We know the location in advance, so we can establish route and exit strategies. On-site, one of us stays with you at all times.” I tick off the protocol like I’m reading from a manual.“You want to go shopping? Fine. You do it my way, or we don’t do it at all.”
“Your way is ridiculous.” She throws her hands up, pacing away from me in a tight circle before spinning around. “This is insane. Five days ago, I could walk into any store in Los Angeles. I could drive my own car to my own appointments. Five days ago—”
“Five days ago, someone left you a gift taken from your own garbage,” I interrupt, my voice sharp enough to cut through her rant. “Five days ago, you had an intruder on your property, rummaging through your trash and leaving it in the middle of your kitchen. That someone went undetected because they know your schedule, your habits, and your preferences. You were vulnerable. With us, you’re not.”
She stops pacing, her shoulders rising and falling with her rapid breathing. The cropped shirt has ridden up slightly, revealing more of her stomach, and I have to fight to keep my gaze on her face.
Professional, controlled, and intentional.
The words I live by are currently failing me spectacularly.
“I hate this,” she huffs quietly, devoid of her usual theatrics. “I hate feeling like a prisoner. I hate that I can’t walk to my car without being interrogated. I hate that I have to submit my friends’ names for background checks like they’re criminals. And I fucking hate that you’re standing there looking at me like I’m a problem instead of a person.”
The words have no effect on me. I’ve heard them from dozens of assignments in the past. But the way she looks at me hits me square in the chest.
“I’m not looking at you like you’re a problem,” I counter.
“Then, how are you looking at me?”
The correct response is to deflect; to return to professional distance; to remind her of protocols and procedures and the thousand other things that keep me from saying what’s actually on my mind.
Like you’re infuriating.
Like you’re stubborn.
Like you’re reckless.
Like you’re brave—and stupid—as hell, going toe-to-toe with a man twice your size.
Like you’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
Curbing my thoughts, I give the correct answer. “Like I need to protect you. Even from yourself.”
She stares at me, and I observe the war happening behind her eyes again, a battle between pride and fear. “Two of you,” she repeats, her voice flat.
“Minimum.”
“And I suppose you need to follow me into the fitting room?”
“Yes. Immediately outside.”
She rolls her eyes, a gesture so petulant that it should annoy me. It doesn’t. Instead, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. She’s impossible and exhausting, but she’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in years.
“Fine,” she snaps, spinning on her heel and storming back toward the house. Her heels clicking an angry rhythm against the pavement, and her hips swaying with indignation as she sassily calls over her shoulder, “But I’m picking the music in the car. I hope you like Taylor Swift. I’ll be singing her entire discography loudly and off-key the entire way.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I deadpan, though I am intrigued.
She stops at the doorway, turning to glare at me. “Of course you wouldn’t,” she grumbles.
