It scared me.
I knew she needed me, or someone like me, from the moment I met her and started to assess her situation. But needing me like she did last night was something else.
She’d said she didn’t want to be alone. She’d come to my room and asked to sleep in my bed. She’d asked to put her arm around me.
She didn’t ask Andre for those things.
Last night was personal, no matter how I wanted to pretend that it wasn’t.
And now she was pissed at me. I could feel it.
And I wanted to somehow make her unpissed.
I couldn’t really blame her for being pissed, given how abrupt I’d been this morning—rushing the fuck out of the hotel room when I woke up and she was in it. But I didn’t know what else to do.
Any kind of conversation under those circumstances would’ve been awkward, not to mention the raging hard-on I’d woken up with that would’ve been impossible for her to miss. I was pretty sure whatever blundering attempt at conversation I was able to choke out would’ve made the fathomless depths of my attraction to her stupidly obvious.
I couldn’t afford that.
I was here to keep her safe, and confusing things for her would only make it more difficult for both of us.
Yeah, right.
It wasn’t her I was worried about confusing.
My hormones were in hyperdrive, and I was having trouble thinking about anything else. It was like my dick belonged to some desperate teenager every time she was near me.
I picked up my phone and scanned the news for the rest of the flight, just trying to tune her out. But I was hyperaware of every tiny shift she made in her seat. Every time I heard her breathe. Every time she tapped the toe of her boot on the floor to the beat of whatever music she was listening to in her headphones.
When she passed me an empty cup to give to the flight attendant and her finger brushed mine, pure lust streaked down my spine.
I looked at her lips, and I had a vivid mental image of her mouth swallowing my cock.
I bet she gives incredible head.
Torture.
This was pure fucking torture.
We flew into Abbotsford, just outside Vancouver, then drove a rental car from the Abbotsford airport to the town of Hope, where Summer’s brother lived.
I’d known, ever since we’d gone over Summer’s schedule in detail, that her brother lived in Hope and she was planning to visit him tonight, on her way home to Vancouver.
Blair Sanchuk was from Hope.
Summer didn’t know about this—or that I’d had a guy following Sanchuk and that he was now missing—so she of course saw no reason not to visit her brother.
I’d considered telling her all, during my failed attempts to get her to reschedule this visit. But instead, I’d simply recommended that she skip the stop in Hope and go straight home to Vancouver after the Montreal show.
She declined my recommendation.
I’d weighed my options, and in the end, decided not to press. I didn’t want her to worry unnecessarily about a danger that didn’t exist.
I’d discussed it with Naveen, Andre and Brody, and they’d all agreed with me. Even if Sanchuk had fled to Hope to lay low, it was doubtful he would know Summer was in town. She wasn’t playing a show. We’d be there for one night, and both Andre and I would be with her at all times.
It was about an hour-and-a-half drive from the Abbotsford airport to the bed and breakfast we were staying at in Hope, and while I drove the car to keep myself occupied, Andre talked Summer’s ear off. About music.
The man had an encyclopedic knowledge of pretty much every subject under the sun; one of those people who read everything he could get his hands on. Even then, I didn’t think he’d be a match for Summer, a DJ with the largest personal music collection I’d ever seen.
I was wrong.
At the beginning of the drive, she’d been silent. She’d immediately connected her phone to the car’s entertainment system and put on some music. She seemed resistant to Andre’s attempts to make conversation from the front seat. She sat alone in the back, and maybe she would’ve tried to keep giving me—and Andre, too—the cold shoulder, the way some women did when they were pissed at you.
I might’ve preferred that, actually.
Instead, she turned off the music and played round after round of “name that song” with Andre. They tossed first lines of songs at each other, back and forth, for like forty-five minutes.
I didn’t say a word.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to them. I just couldn’t have kept up if I’d tried.
Then they got into a debate about the correct lyrics to Beck’s “Loser.” Which went on for a good ten minutes. They were pretty much yelling at each other—with laughter—by the time I cut in.
“How about you both agree to be losers, and we move on.”
We were in the mountains in a dead spot, no signal, so they couldn’t look it up on the internet and settle the argument anyway.
“He’s just jealous,” Andre informed Summer, “because he can’t keep up. He doesn’t even know who Beck is.”
I was jealous. At this point, I wasn’t even gonna lie to myself and pretend otherwise. Because almost an hour of music trivia, and I had no clue what they were talking about most of the time.
But mainly it was irritating the shit out of me that Andre was making Summer laugh, while I couldn’t even look her in the eye in the rearview mirror.
I tried to shoot him a look that said, Back off. I fucking lied. I slept with her last night and you need to stop making her do that sexy laugh.
Unfortunately, Andre wasn’t one for picking up on the subtleties of the complex male/female relationship variety. Maybe one of the reasons he was perpetually single.
I sighed and muttered, “I know who Beck is.”
I did. Vaguely. I couldn’t have named one of his songs if you put a gun to my head, though.
“New challenge,” Andre announced. “Songs with your name in the title.”
“What, Andre?” Summer said sarcastically. “Yeah. Millions of songs about that guy.”
“Nope. Summer. Go.”
“Holy shit, you’re gonna die. I do hope you’re kidding. I’d hate to humiliate a man…”
“Not kidding at all.”
“I am gonna mop the floor with you. Why would you even—”
“I mean, if you can’t handle the challenge—”
“‘Summer Fever’! By Donna Summer. And yes, you have to say the artist, every time, fucker. You can’t just make up songs.”
“‘Summer Days,’” Andre said cooly. “Bob Dylan.”
“‘This Summer’s Gonna Hurt Like a Motherfucker.’ Maroon 5. You’re toast, baby.”
“‘The Boys Of Summer,’” Andre replied, completely unfazed. “Don Henley.”
“‘Sweet Summer Lovin’,’” Summer said. “Dolly Parton.”
“‘Summer Nights.’ John Travolta and Olivia Newton John.” Andre glanced at me. “She vastly underestimates me.”
I gave him a cold look. He was impressing her, and it was pissing me off.
He didn’t seem to notice.
“Unlikely,” Summer said. “‘Summer Nights,’ right back at you. Rascal Flatts.”
“‘Summer In The City.’ The Lovin Spoonful.”
“‘Endless Summer Nights.’ Richard Marx.”
“‘Long Hot Summer Night.’ The Jimi Hendrix Experience.”
“Touché,” Summer said. “‘Hot Girl Summer.’ Megan Thee Stallion.”
“‘Summer of ’69.’ Bryan Adams.”
“‘Summer ’68.’ Pink Floyd.”
“Nice one,” Andre said. “‘Cruel Summer.’ Bananarama.”
“Uggggh, you didn’t. I wanted that one.”
“Should’ve said it, then.”
“You play a good game, Andre.”
“I know.”
I rolled my eyes.
“‘Summer,’” Summer said.
“Best name for a song, ever, by the way. Calvin Harris.”
“‘Summer Breeze.’ Seals and Croft.”
“‘Girls of Summer.’ Aerosmith.” She was getting louder with each song, practically shouting them at him.
“‘Girls In Their Summer Clothes,’” Andre replied, cool as a cucumber. “Bruce Springsteen.”
“Damn,” Summer muttered. “He’s good.” Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.
It was literally the first time she’d spoken to me since we got in the car.
“You really don’t want to play trivia of any kind against Andre,” I told her. “He’ll slay you every time.”
“Fuck that,” she said. “‘Summer Love.’ Justin Timberlake.”
“‘Summer Love,’” he retorted. “One Direction.”
“Brother,” I said. “What the fuck are you listening to?”
Andre shrugged, smiling.
“‘Summer of Love,’” Summer said. “U2.”
“‘Suddenly Last Summer.’ The Motels.”
“Who the fuck are The Motels?” I said.
They ignored me.
“‘Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days Of Summer,’ bitch. Nat ‘King’ Cole.”
“‘Summer Wind,’” Andre replied cooly. “Sinatra, baby.”
“‘Summertime.’ Ella Fitzgerald.”
“Nope. You lose.”
“What!?”
“Summertime is all one word. Doesn’t count.”
“Fuck you. Where’s my internet?”
Andre chuckled as Summer poked at her phone in vain.
“You wanna pick this up where the legendary DJ crashed and burned?” Andre asked me, rubbing it in. “Take on the champ?”
“Uh…” I cleared my throat. “‘Hazy Shade of Winter’?”
Silence.
“Guy. That doesn’t even have summer in the title.”
“I couldn’t think of one for summer. You guys said them all.”
Andre shook his head. “Amateur. Do you even know who does that song?”
I said nothing.
“He has no fucking idea,” Andre tossed over his shoulder.
“The song is called ‘A Hazy Shade of Winter,’” Summer said, sounding appalled at my ignorance. “And it’s Simon and Garfunkel.”
“Right,” I muttered. “Everyone knows that.”
“He totally didn’t know that,” Andre said.
“How about we enjoy some silence for a while,” I suggested.
“No can do.” Summer turned on the music again.
Andre laughed. “Nice.”
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“She’s trying to keep playing the game. This is ‘Cool for the Summer’ by Demi Lovato.” Then he tossed over his shoulder, “‘Summer’s Almost Gone.’ The Doors.”
“‘Song for the Summer,’” she said. “Stereophonics.”
I sighed.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Summer said, like she wasn’t sorry at all. “Are we annoying you?”
“Don’t worry,” Andre said. “Ronan would never actually tell you to shut up. He’s too nice.”
“Excuse me?” she said, like he’d just told her Sasquatch was real.
“He’s too nice,” Andre said, like he actually thought she hadn’t heard him. “Anyway, trust me. You are waaaaay less annoying than his last client.”
I threw him a look that said, You can go ahead and shut up now.
He didn’t notice.
“Well,” Summer muttered, “maybe his next client will be even less annoying.”
“Nah,” Andre said, totally oblivious to the subtext. “You’ll probably be the last one anyway.”
“What?” Summer sat forward. “Why?”
“Well, the last one was supposed to be the last one.” I cleared my throat, loudly, but Andre didn’t even glance at me. “After that, he was supposed to be retiring his bodyguard services. We threw a party for him and everything. That was the night we met you, actually.”
It was like a record scratch. Summer actually shut off the music.
“What?” she repeated.
“Tell her, bro,” Andre said, like he wasn’t even sure why I wasn’t jumping in to speak for myself.
Like I wanted her to know any of this shit?
“Tell her how you said you’d never take another bodyguard assignment.”
I shot him a look and found him smiling at me. The smile fucking faded at the look on my face, though.
In the backseat, Summer said, “Why did he take this one, then?”
“Uh… Brody Mason is an important client.” Maybe he was finally receiving the shut the fuck up vibes I was sending. He cleared his throat. “We’re all about doing what’s best for the client, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” Summer said. “And if this last client was so annoying, why didn’t you guys just drop him or her?”
“Ronan would never drop a client,” Andre said, with confidence, though he was wrong about that. “No matter what a spoiled, ridiculous, obnoxious fucking princess they were.”
Okay; I knew he was still talking about my last client.
But who knew how Summer would take that comment?
“Hey. Why’d you turn off the music?” Andre glanced back at her, like he’d suddenly realized it was uncomfortably silent in the car.
“What do you want to hear?” she said quietly. Too quietly.
She was thinking back there, about something, and she wasn’t saying whatever it was.
I didn’t like it.
“How about ‘All Summer Long.’ Kid Rock,” he suggested. Then he winked at me. “She doesn’t realize I can go on like this all day.”
I sighed again.
“‘Sex in the Summer,’” Summer replied, halfheartedly. “Prince.”
I didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive.
Chapter Seventeen
Ronan
When we finally arrived in Hope, Andre had once again won the “Summer” song game. Summer seemed impressed but mildly annoyed with him—and still really annoyed with me.
I picked up on that fact when I opened the car door for her and she refused my offer to carry the laptop she had with her in the backseat—then went right ahead and let Andre carry it when he swung around and took it from her, clueless, like three seconds later.
I let it go.
We checked into our B and B, which was the nicest place to stay in town, according to Summer. I didn’t ask why she didn’t stay at her brother’s. Now that the car games were over, the conversation had died. She was civil but withdrawn, and quiet instead of her usual sassy self.
I fucking missed that sass.
Was she still rattled about what happened at the club last night?
Or upset about this morning?
I knew I’d handled things badly at the hotel. Okay, abysmally.
But I didn’t know how to deal with it any other way than to retreat behind my wall of professionalism.
And the more I did that, the more annoyed she seemed to get.
I took a quick look around the property, then scoped out her room while she waited on the threshold for me to give the okay for her to enter. We each had our own room along the walkway off the back garden. It was a giant house that had once been a single family mansion and had been divided into private rooms. It was pretty luxurious compared to the few chain hotels I’d seen along the way in, but something told me I wouldn’t be seeing much of Summer while we were here.
I lingered for as long as I could, and when I left her in her room, she muttered something about having work to do. What work, I had no idea.
At dinnertime, I had Andre run out to get us takeout again. And maybe it was my imagination, but Summer actually seemed annoyed when I brought her the souvlaki on a pita with Greek salad, which I knew she liked. This time, instead of thanking me, she gave me a strange, irritated look, took the food and shut the door in my face.
The next few hours were pretty much a waiting game, as I tried to
figure out how I could be less of an asshole. How I could be nice to her and make her smile again, and still do my job—without fucking up and ending up with my dick in her.
I also took the liberty of aggressively jacking off in my room while picturing her wearing nothing but those white thigh-high boots of hers.
When I knocked on her door to pick her up at nine p.m., like she’d asked me to, she stepped out in a hot-pink faux fur jacket, black furry boots, and skintight black satin pants. My gaze dropped straight to her ass when she turned to close the door behind herself, and my dick had a fucking seizure.
Jesus. Christ.
I adjusted myself, quickly, trying to get comfortable in my jeans.
She turned to me, almost bumping into me. Clearly, she’d expected me to move out of her way, like a normal human.
I just stood there staring her. Her jacket was open, and she was wearing some kind of black mesh shirt stretched over a hot-pink bra underneath. Looked like she was ready to do some hardcore clubbing.
I could envision her perfectly… straddling me in some dark back corner of a bar, riding my cock with abandon. The vision was blinding. I couldn’t feel my feet.
“Let’s go,” she said. She strode around me and up the path to the car, where Andre was waiting, while I tried to remember how to use my legs.
He opened the door for her, and I got in on the other side, joining her in the backseat and leaving him to drive.
Summer gave Andre directions, because her brother’s address, which was actually somewhere outside of Hope, wouldn’t show up on GPS. It was off a dodgy gravel logging road in the woods that we probably weren’t even supposed to drive the rental on, which was off another long road, which was off the highway. Felt like we were many miles from civilization.
It was dark as shit, no streetlights, and I didn’t see another driveway of a house anywhere.
When we turned up the drive to Summer’s brother’s place, it wound farther through the woods, no house in sight, for at least five minutes. But eventually, I heard a deep, rumbling bass beat coming from the dark ahead of us.
Music.
“This all belongs to your brother?” I asked Summer. If it did, it had to be hundreds of acres.
Sweet Temptation: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 3) Page 25