I hum the lyrics to ‘Love on the Brain’ by Rihanna under my breath as I tap my finger on the table in front of me, patiently keeping the tempo of the song that’s been stuck in my head all day. I’ve been working on my lyrics like crazy, but sometimes the words don’t come, and I need to listen to something else to get some inspiration or see how the pros do it. Rhianna is always a great start.
As I stare around the café, I consider whether it would have been a good idea to bring Shane along with me. He was great moral support when I’d met with my new manager. Of course, he might have been too good—Bass Note has taken an interest in Shane just as they did with me. That’s one of the reasons he couldn’t make it today—he’s been in meetings all morning.
He could have made it. If I’d asked, he would have rushed over after the last meeting and been by my side while I met my new bodyguard. I just hadn’t asked.
I’m a big girl. I can meet my own damn bodyguards, thank you.
I tuck my hair behind my ear and turn my head slightly when a group of teenage girls comes into the café. It’s not that I think I’ll get swamped here, or anything—people are still talking about my videos and sharing them—but I haven’t reached full Jennifer Lawrence status yet. I had become used to keeping a low profile after a week spent lurking half-hidden in the shadows on campus.
Not even two weeks on the popular culture radar, and I was already taking precautions. What does this mean for the future?
The girls pass right by me, and I adjust my sunglasses. I’m an asshole wearing sunglasses indoors and sipping a mocha frappuccino with a fake name on it. If Shane could see me, he would smack these glasses right off my face. I’ve got a faded pair of coveralls on and a light, pastel pink shirt underneath. My hair is loose over my shoulders and chest falling in straight lines.
Next to my elbow, my phone rings. I quickly scoop it up and check the caller ID. Unknown.
Wearily, I answer it anyway. “Hello?”
“Natalie Summers?”
A gruff man’s voice. I start to worry, but I push down the concern. “Speaking.”
“I’m Blake West, from Shadow Corp security firm.”
My shoulders fall with relief. “Hi, yeah, I’m at the café.”
“So am I,” Blake replies. I turn my head, but I don’t see anyone talking on the phone. “Are you wearing the sunglasses?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be right there.”
He hangs up without so much as a ‘how do ya do,’ and I stare at my phone for a moment before swiveling around at the sound of the door opening and closing at the opposite end of the room.
Whenever I see women in movies or on TV shows who get all tongue-tied at the sight of a man, I laugh. I laugh because it doesn’t seem possible to me that a member of the opposite sex—however beautiful—could possibly make a woman short-circuit by doing nothing more than entering a room. Sure, I’ve salivated over guys as much as the next straight girl, but I’ve never seen one who made me stop thinking—one who looked so good I couldn’t imagine opening my mouth and making words come out.
Until now.
The man who enters the café stares directly at me for a moment before making his way over with purpose. He’s dressed for a New York winter. His charcoal scarf is tied in an elegant knot around his neck, and he deftly removes it, his fingers moving down to undo the buttons on his black, double-breasted overcoat. His jeans are dark and snug, but what draws my attention even faster are his eyes. They are half-hidden by a furrowed brow, dark and flickering, looking at me and then around the room and then back to me as though he’s taking everything in. Blake’s blond, tall, and his jaw looks like it could cut me.
He is, without exception, the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.
Shane is going to be spitting fire when he finds out he missed this, I think as I quickly send the signal to my legs to move for fuck’s sake!
I stand up awkwardly, nearly knocking over my drink in the process. The man stops just in front of me, his eyebrows furrowing even more.
Extending my hand, I dig deep to find my voice. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
I’ve had worse starts.
He looks at my hand for a moment and frowns deeper like I’ve done something wrong. Which I haven’t, have I? I’m not drooling, am I? Shit! What if I’m drooling?
Finally, he takes my hand, and I have a few moments to squeal internally at how strong his fingers feel before he drops it. “Blake West.” His voice is like honey, and I want to coat myself in it.
“Yeah, I… oh… you’re sitting? Okay.”
He takes the seat in front of me, but not before taking off his overcoat to reveal a long-sleeved shirt that hugs his athletic body and makes my brain short-circuit for a moment. Then he sits down, and it isn’t until he’s resting his elbows on the table in front of him that I realize I’m still standing. I scramble to sit.
“So, nice to meet you,” I say.
“You said that already.”
“Well, would you rather I tell you that it’s not nice?”
He shrugs, looking away from me and scanning the crowded tables on either side of us. “Doesn’t bother me.”
Okay, so that’s… disappointing.
It’s always a bummer when I meet a handsome man only to find he’s a bit of an asshole. I could give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s just having a bad day, but at the same time, his attitude is not really making me want to. Besides, the way his browline dips over his eyes and the grim set of his jaw gives me the impression he doesn’t smile much. How can someone be pleasant to be around if they don’t smile?
“So, Blake, it’s…”
Shit! I almost tell him it’s nice to meet him. Again. Because I’m a fucking lunatic, apparently, and I’m stuck on a loop like a broken record.
“… short-notice, I know, but I’m glad we could make the time to meet.”
“The firm makes the appointments.”
“And you keep them. Good job!” Sometimes, when I meet someone particularly unpleasant, my brain goes in the opposite direction, and I become sickeningly sweet in a really passive-aggressive way. My parents think it’s a character flaw, and Shane finds it hilarious. “Really, I’m very glad to meet you. Have you done a lot of this kind of work before?”
He frowns even more deeply, which I hadn’t thought could be possible. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve been on leave for a while. I wasn’t supposed to take this job. A buddy of mine was assigned to you, but when your manager changed the dates, they called me in instead.”
It’s the most words he’s said yet, and they’re not doing a thing to make me feel any better about this arrangement. “Well, your buddy is missing out because we’re going to have loads of fun.”
Blake looks like he’s seriously considering jabbing a fork in his jugular and ending it all, and I consider handing him mine. It’s a strange situation to be in. My hormones are telling me to climb over the table and place myself directly in this lap, which is a level of attraction I’m not used to feeling when I see a man for the first time. My brain is telling me to be as cheerful as possible to offset the douchebag vibes he’s giving off. It’s also telling my hormones to stop because this man, while gorgeous, is acting like a jerk, and I’ve never been into jerks.
Can a beautiful face offset personality? I would have said ‘no’ this morning.
Thankfully, the waiter comes and saves me from myself. I take the sunglasses off and finally look at Blake without the glasses between us. His skin is paler, and when I put the glasses down, I see that one of his sleeves has rolled up revealing the black edge of a tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos, but I’ve always wanted one. Maybe Melpomene and Thalia or the musical notations for ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’
Blake orders a black coffee because, of course, he does—black with no sugar. He glances back at me and then squints at the sunglasses I’ve left on the table between us.
“Your manager said you’ve been dealing with some trouble?”
All business. I can work with that.
“Just some issues at school. Some people wanted selfies, and it got a bit out of hand.”
“I can’t protect you if you insist on taking selfies with everyone who asks.”
“Well, that’s… fair, but in my defense, I haven’t, um… insisted anything. We just met.”
“I want to make myself perfectly clear. There’s only so much I can do, and if you’re going to put yourself in harm’s way, then you’ll have to accept the consequences.”
I tilt my head at him trying to get a sense of whether he’s frowning at me or just at the general situation. This is technically a job interview, after all. Magnus had set this up so I could get to know my bodyguard before we start the press rounds before my tour. I would never have thought anyone would be so surly in this situation. It’s almost like he’s trying to make the worst impression possible. Why is he like this?
“Is this one of those deals where you try really hard to be mean to me, so I’ll ask for you to be replaced?”
Blake just stares. His eyes flicker back up to mine and hold my gaze, and I find myself chewing my tongue to give my brain something to focus on instead of the pinkish hue of his lips. They look so damn kissable, and it’s taking everything I have in me not to lean forward and assume the flirting pose.
Because this isn’t a flirty time.
No, Natalie.
Bad Natalie!
“I’m sorry, what?” Blake asks.
“You seem like you really don’t want to be here,” I say. Deliberately, I lean back in my seat taking the opposite approach to the one my brain and libido want and grab my drink to take a sip. Because, apparently, I’m fucking thirsty as hell. “It’s okay if you don’t. I’m fine with it, but you don’t have to be rude to me, though.”
He taps the table in almost the same beat I’d been tapping when he’d called me. Finally, he leans forward a little in his chair.
“It’s not that I don’t want to be here,” he says, simply. “I just want to make this clear.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “This is a working relationship. I’m not here to be your friend. If you saw The Bodyguard and thought this would be some lasting, deep connection, you’re wrong.”
“First of all, thank you for casting me as Whitney Houston in your The Bodyguard fantasy. I would kill for her cheekbones.” Blake clicks his tongue and looks away from me as I go on. “Second, at what point did I give you the idea I want a Bodyguard type scenario?”
He shrugs, the sleeves of his shirt rising a bit more to reveal more of that mysterious tattoo. “A lot of green celebrities think it’s going to be champagne and caviar, flying first class, and fucking their entourage.”
I think about Shane, my only entourage since I started this ridiculous adventure, and the thought of us fucking makes me want to laugh out loud. It would be so awkward, and Shane would probably spend the entire time complimenting me on my toned abs while resolutely not looking at my tits.
“I’m not green, Blake, I’m brown. And I’m not in this for the champagne and caviar.”
“Right, because social media stars are just doing it for the fans?”
“Only if bodyguards are just doing it for the aesthetic,” I reply. I’ve still got a smile on my lips, and I have no idea how it’s still there. He’s pushing every one of my buttons. The fact that the tight shirt is stretched tantalizingly over his chest is also not helping matters.
This is bad. So very bad.
Blake seems to think over what I said, though I can’t tell if he thinks I’ve said something profound or if he’s just trying to unravel whether he’s been insulted.
“Besides, fucking my entourage sounds like a lot of work,” I go on. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do for the tour, and I really don’t have time for it.”
Blake’s facial expression doesn’t change which is really starting to infuriate me. It’s bad enough I’ve been blessed with a permanent frowner as my new bodyguard, but how the hell am I supposed to talk to him if he won’t even crack a smile?
“Just as long as you know not to try it,” Blake says.
“I promise, your virtue is safe,” I tell him. “So, are you okay with talking about something else? Like whether you need to come to my classes or just to press things?”
I’m trying to make it professional again aiming for a jovial tone even as I feel his half-frown, half-glare boring into me.
And, really, why is he the one bringing up The Bodyguard? Why is he so insistent on making sure I understand this is a business relationship? I wouldn’t have thought anything different if he hadn’t brought it up. Yes, my surprisingly vocal hormones are pretty excited about the prospect of getting to be near him for several hours a day, but I would never have entertained the idea of trying anything. That’s the sort of thing that only happens in the movies. Just like a girl going all slack-jawed at the sight of a good-looking man. That stuff never happens in real life.
The point is, he shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. He’s the one who made it weird, not me. I tell myself that a couple of times to make sure I have it clear in my mind so later on, when I explain myself to Shane, I’ll be able to convince him of it, too.
“If you’re having problems with your classmates, then I should be there.”
“Great. You’ll need a pass to come on campus, assuming you’re going to take me as a client?” I add, unsure. “Or is your firm going to send someone else? Because, as I said, you don’t need to be here.”
Because, really, we haven’t gotten off to the best start. Even though his ‘buddy’ has a conflicting schedule, surely the firm will be able to send someone else if necessary? I’m torn between wanting him to stay and wanting him gone. I can’t decide whether it will be better to get rid of this man who makes my body tremble in a way it never has before, or keep him as close as possible so I can try to figure out what it is about him that makes me feel this way.
The waiter comes back and gives Blake his coffee. Blake doesn’t take his eyes off of me, and I am once again hit with the feeling he’s scanning me, taking everything in.
I wonder what he can tell just by looking at me. Can he tell my fingers are aching to reach out and touch? Can he tell his light-colored eyebrows make me want to lean forward and press my cheek to his face so I can feel them on my skin? Was there ever a The Bodyguard porno? I’ll have to ask Shane, he’ll know.
“It’ll be me,” he says, finally. “I look forward to working with you.”
And I would have believed him if he’d managed to say the words in any other tone. It’s like he’s reciting a script after only a week’s worth of acting lessons, and he still has a while to go before he can make it believable.
“Great!” I reply, wondering how long I’ll be able to keep up the passive-aggressive cheerfulness.