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Three years later, and my brain still shuts off around this woman.

Focus, idiot.

“Where’s your room?” She asks as we reach the guest wing.

“I stay with you.”

She stops dead in the hallway.

“What?”

Her head snaps around so fast her hair whips across her shoulder.

“Absolutely not.”

I cross my arms.

“Absolutely yes.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Security protocol.”

“You don’t need to babysit me.”

“Not babysitting.”

“Feels like it.”

“Feels like protection,” I correct calmly.

She huffs and pushes past me toward the suite door.

“Fine,” she mutters. “Let’s go inside before I strangle you in the hallway.”

Fair point.

I open the door and let her walk in first.

The suite is massive.

Bedroom, sitting room, private terrace overlooking the gardens.

One entrance.

Two windows.

Both reinforced.

Good.

Amanda drops her purse onto the sofa and spins around.

“We’re not really sharing a room.”

“We are.”

“No.”