by Wood, Vivian
My brows slash down. I didn’t know that about the interview process, but it doesn’t surprise me.
“I like that you just humble bragged about being a badass,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“My point is that they picked someone who looked like they could be your boyfriend.”
I give a cough of laughter.
“Um, no.” I look him up and down. “You are not my type.”
“Oh yeah?” he says. When he smirks, this dimple flashes in his left cheek, and I can see why Artisan or the Ravens or whoever chose him. When you see us standing together, pretty pop star and all-American hunk, we’d make sense. You know, if he wasn’t an insufferable asshole.
“Yeah.”
“What, you don’t go for former military guys in perfect shape who have great personal style?” he asks.
I actually laugh outright at that.
“You’re terrible,” I manage. “Your ego is massively overinflated, you know that?”
He glances down at himself, then looks back up at me and shrugs.
“Just stating facts,” he says.
“Jesus. Are you like this all the time?”
“Every minute of the day.”
There’s that dimple again. I pointedly ignore it. I hate when people are amused at my expense. I don’t reply, letting my gaze drift back down to my mug of tea. Wondering if maybe just going quiet will end this conversation with minimal pain and embarrassment on my part.
But no, of course Connor Gray isn’t going to just let the matter drop.
“So what is your type, then?” he asks.
I give him a startled look.
“What?”
“If you don’t go for model good looks, bravery in service of your country, and boundless intelligence…” he actually has the nerve to gesture to himself as he says this, “What the hell type of guy do you date?”
I open my mouth, but words don’t form.
“Um…” I say. I don’t know how begin to answer that, so I default to shit-talking. “You seriously need an ego check. Some people like intellectuals and… stuff.”
“Ahhhh, intellectuals and stuff,” he says, green eyes sparkling. “Right, I should have figured. You date wimpy guys with skinny jeans and big glasses, huh?”
I frown. I have no idea what’s happening in this conversation.
“Maybe,” I shoot back, already knowing how lame that sounds. “What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t,” he says, a grin splitting his face. “You can’t date anyone for the duration of the tour. Not openly, anyway.”
I rear back. My patience with Connor’s bullshit has suddenly hit a wall.
“You’re not making the rules here, buddy,” I snap.
“Actually…” he says, leaning forward and tapping the sheaf of legal papers. “These say that I do.”
I give him a look letting him know just how crazy he sounds.
“I don’t think so.”
“Ayup. You just signed them and had them notarized,” he says. “Look for yourself, but I’m telling you. I didn’t want this contract to start with, but my boss pushed for it. I agreed, for the right price. And with certain stipulations.”
“You work for me,” I said, eyeing him like a fresh escapee from the psych ward.
“Yeah, but when you signed that contract with your tour promoter, you agreed to a list of things. One of which is that I have unilateral control over your security, that I can make any personal arrangements that I see as necessary for your safety. And I think running with this native security thing is the best personal arrangement for you, for now.”
I gawp at him like a fish out of water.
“You asshole. This will not stand,” I growl. “I was willing to overlook whatever fucking scheme you’ve got going on with my mom, but this attitude—”
“Is something you’ll learn to appreciate over the next seven months,” Connor finishes for me.
“Like hell,” I say, shoving to my feet.
“You gonna storm out again?” he asks, looking unimpressed. “Is that what you do when you don’t get your way, throw a fit and walk away?”
“No!”
Yes. All the time, though I rarely have to do that anymore. I’m Elly Parsons, pop star. People go out of their way to make me happy these days.
“Right. Well. You can certainly call the lawyer back, rip up the contract, make a big stink. But my conditions are non-negotiable, and the tour promoter wants me here. No Connor, no tour.” He paused for a moment. “Are you willing to sink your own tour just because you don’t like being told what to do? Seems childish.”
My cheeks burn with fury. My hands ball into fists, clutched so tight that my nails dig into my palms painfully.
“This is bullshit.”
“Deal with it,” Connor says, kicking his legs up on the table. I glare at his heavy black Doc Martens, rage filling my veins like wildfire.
“You are going to regret this,” I say, pointing my finger in his face.
He reaches out and wraps his fingers around my hand, pulling it down.
“Don’t be disrespectful,” he says, suddenly serious.
“Are you… kidding me?” I say, my voice rising to a shout. “You are awful. Just… ugh!”
I turn and head for the bedroom. I need to get out of here, away from this jerk.
“Elly…” he calls.
I ignore him, digging through my suitcases until I scrounge up one of my Elle Does Athletics workout outfits. I change in the bathroom, just in case Connor decides to come in and continue the argument. He does seem like he enjoys goading me.
Once I’m changed, I put on a headband, throw my hair in a high ponytail, and lace up my bright pink Elle Does Athletics running shoes.
I resist the urge to check my reflection in the mirror. For some reason, I don’t want Connor to get the idea that I’m making myself look nice for him.
Fuck that guy, I rage in my head. I grab my iPod and my fitness step counter bracelet, jamming my earbuds in and turning up my Workout Rap Jams playlist as loud as I can stand.
Time to go run away from my problems, I think, giving a wry laugh.
I ignore Connor as I leave the room, turning up my music to an ear-bleeding level when he tries to ask me a question. Leaving him and his nasty scowl behind, I head out of the room and down the hall.
Eat my dust, Connor Gray.
I skip the elevator and head to the stairs, turning and heading UP instead of straight to the gym. I’ll get to the ellipticals and treadmills, certainly. But not before I make my new native bodyguard run up ten or twenty flights of stairs trying to keep up with me.
To Connor’s credit, he keeps up with me perfectly and doesn’t make a sound, not that I can hear over the music blaring from my headphones. Still, I’ve only just begun. If he’s going to make my life difficult and be a pain in my ass, I’m going to do the same to him.
Starting now, when I see how long we can go before one of us drops. See, he might be a former SEAL, but he’s got nothing on my personal level of determination. Anyone would run as fast and far as I have, if they were being chased by my past.
I’ll tire you out yet, Connor. Just wait and see.
I’m Elly fucking Parsons. Catch me if you can.
Chapter Six
Connor
“I’m just saying that there’s got to be a better choice,” I explain. “I gotta be honest, Elly Parsons is a spoiled little brat, and she certainly seems to think I’m a fucking prick.”
I just finished my first day of work as Elly’s bodyguard, and… well, let’s just say it could’ve gone better. She’s holed up in her hotel bedroom after a silent dinner at the bar in the hotel’s high-end sushi restaurant and then a sulky hour of watching trash TV in her suite’s living room.
If there’s one thing Elianna Parsons can do, it’s pout. That silent treatment was cold as ice, not that I give a flying fuck about it. I’m here to protect her, not kiss her ass like the rest of her ent
ourage seems to do.
Two of the beta bodyguards are controlling the hallway outside her suite now, so I feel comfortable enough to step away for a few minutes. I’m downstairs pacing back and forth in the hotel’s lobby, cell phone pressed to my ear.
“Already? Damn, she’s only known you for three days. Tell her to call me when she’s put up with your shit for six years,” my boss Harvey Ambrose says. He sounds distracted, and I can hear young girls’ voices chatting animatedly in the background on his end. “Natalie and Emmeline, please stop braiding the dog’s hair. She doesn’t like that!”
My former Navy commander, Harv left the military a year before I did; he’s spent almost every minute since running his own security firm and doting on his seven year old twin daughters.
To me, he says, “You need to establish your priorities, SEAL. All I should be hearing from you is, ‘Thanks for getting me this baller-ass contract, Harv. You’re the best boss ever, Harv.’ Instead, you’re just bitching about having to work for a pretty woman.”
“Fuck off with that,” I say. “She has a serious attitude problem, Harv. And this thing with her mom and my dad is definitely making it worse. It just might be better to get an older guy in here, someone to play Daddy figure and keep her in line.”
“Keeping the customer in line is your job, Gray. You’re a professional bodyguard. You control the situation at all times, and you’re going to keep our little starlet safe, even if it means that you have to be nice to do it. I promise it won’t hurt anything but your big bad ego.”
“It’s not that…” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. I glance around the hotel lobby, automatically scanning the room for threats. “She just… she’s a brat, man.”
“Sounds like a schoolyard crush, Gray.”
“Fuck no.”
“So you don’t think that Elly Parsons, one of the most beautiful women on the planet, is attractive. That’s what you’re saying right now?” Harv asks, sounding a little worn out.
“I mean… it’s not that she’s ugly or anything,” I say, trying to qualify.
“A-ha! So you have a thing for her,” Harv says, sounding triumphant.
“What are you, ten?” I ask. “Besides, like I was trying to explain, it’s not that she isn’t pretty. It’s that I don’t like her personality.”
“She’s a raging bitch?”
“I didn’t say that,” I am quick to say. “I just said that I don’t like her.”
“I’ve never seen you not like anyone with tits like that.”
I’m quiet for a beat, because he’s right. I have absolutely no problem admitting that I like women. A lot of women. Basically anywhere, anytime… except when I’m working. There’s that to remember, one of my very few rules about chasing tail. Even manwhores gotta have some boundaries.
“I’m on the job,” I say, my last line of defense. “And I wish she’d stop acting like a pouty teenager.”
“You agreed to take this job, knowing that you were guarding a pop star. What exactly did you expect?” Harv chuckles.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I just saw the fucking dollar signs and knew I couldn’t turn it down.”
Harv pauses a beat, and before he can even start, I cut him off.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
“You know that if you need help, Amy and I will loan you the money. Hell, given the circumstances, I would gladly give it to you.”
“I can’t accept that.” I don’t mean to be a jerk, but the idea of accepting money from anyone for any reason just kills me.
“It’s not even for you! It’s—”
“Let it go,” I say. This time, the tension in my voice seems to carry across the line, because Harv doesn’t press his case further. “And I really think you ought to consider swapping me and Derek. I could work his kidnapping case, no problem.”
“Yeah, but he can’t play boyfriend to a celebrity starlet. Like it or not, pretty boy, you’re stuck with the pop princess. Blame your good genes, Gray,” Harv says. “Hold on.”
I hear him cover the phone and say something to his daughters. He returns to the call with a sigh.
“Listen, I need to get back to my girls. Are you going to be able to handle this? I want you to tell me that you called to vent, and that you’re going to be cool now.”
I suck in a deep breath and release it, nodding.
“Yeah. I can do it.”
“I’m surrounded by women, Gray. Wife, daughters, mother in law. Even the damn dog is female. Let me give you a little advice, something I’ve learned since I came home: you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Women aren’t like your SEAL buddies.”
“Uh huh,” I say.
“I’m serious. Just be nice and compliment her a little, and you’ll make your own life easier.”
“I doubt that she got that spoiled fucking attitude from not having her ass kissed enough,” I grunt.
“Lesson one is going to be not calling her spoiled. Not to her face, at least. Man the hell up and do your job, SEAL.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” I say, only half-joking. I respect the hell out of Harv, and I’d probably follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked. No qualifiers, the man straight up saved my life — once by whipping me into shape to become a SEAL, and then again by hiring me when I quit the service.
I really should listen to more of his advice, I think. Then I think about how whipped he is to his wife and daughters and I chuckle.
“Good man. Play nice, and try not to fuck her, okay?”
He hangs up before I can say another word. My laugh vanishes, and I scowl at my phone screen.
“Fucker,” I say. “Not a chance in hell.”
The truth bubbles up and fills my brain, even as I wish it would just sink back into the pit of my stomach where it belongs.
The problem is that she’s not just a spoiled brat who hates my guts — she’s also so fucking hot I can barely stand to look at her.
That glossy, dark hair with a hint of red undertone. Those startlingly bright violet-blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes, there’s definitely something innocent and unmistakably provocative in those eyes. Her mouth is… fuck, I can’t even look at it or think about it. She wears these bright colors of lipstick, red or pink, to draw attention to her mouth.
My hands clench into fists.
Stop, I warn myself, but it’s too late.
I’m thinking of her perfect, bouncy tits. I mean, I’ve only ever seen them in tight little outfits on TV and covered in t-shirts in real life, but dammmmnnnnn. I keep having this recurring thought about how satisfying it must be to rip her bra off, see her tits jiggle for the first time.
Annnnnd that’s all it takes to make me hard. I’ve always been like that, takes almost nothing to get me ready and raring to go. Note to self: do not, do not, do not think about Elly’s tits when you’re in the same room as her.
The rest of her body is amazing, too. Of course it would be; she’s a starlet with a bunch of people that tell her what to eat, what to wear, coach her through workouts and tour plans and life. Anyone would look that good if they had all the same advantages that Elly does, I remind myself.
Still, watching her ass move in those skintight pink running pants yesterday as she ran the stairs… Pretty sure wars have been fought for asses less hot than hers.
“Mr. Gray?”
I turn on my heel and find the timid young hotel concierge standing behind me. He’s probably nineteen or twenty, just a handful of years younger than me, but he actually cowers when I spin to look at him. I think his oversized white dress shirt and unhemmed black dress pants make him look even ganglier than he is, which is fucking unfortunate.
“What’s up?” I ask, cutting to the point.
“When you came down to talk to us earlier, you specified that Miss Parsons is not to receive any parcels or gifts. I have something here that’s just arrived by courier, and my boss said to give it to you. Can you sign for it?” He points to the concierge desk a
few feet away.
“Of course,” I say, stalking over to the desk. A small, rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper sits next to a huge, lavish bouquet of white roses.
He follows me, then stops in front of the desk with a frown.
“That’s weird,” he says.
“These are for Elly?” I ask, pointing to the flowers.
“Um. No,” he says, scrunching up his face. “Wait, yes.”
“Can you give me a single, straight answer, please?” I snap, losing patience.
“Well… I mean, there’s a card here that says these are for Elly,” he says, plucking a small white index card off the floral arrangement and handing it over to me. “But I actually came over to tell you about this book or whatever.” He taps the brown package. “I didn’t receive these flowers. Literally, they weren’t here when I walked over to talk to you?”
He says the last like a question, but I’m not really listening anymore. I glance down at the card, and the inscription instantly puts me on alert.
Elly,
So nice to meet you. See you again —
Very, very soon.
That’s a promise. <3 <3
XOXO
Your Admirer
A trickle of worry raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I carefully set the card face down on the concierge desk, trying not to smudge any prints that might be on it. I should have gotten gloves first, but I didn’t fully think it through. Rookie mistake.
Fuck. Unless this is a sick joke, these flowers could be from the same guy who almost hurt Elly a few days ago. And if it’s him, he went from one-time attacker to inter-state stalker, which is not a good sign.
“What’s your name?” I ask the kid, glancing back up.
“Karl,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“Karl, do you know who delivered these? Did they come with the package?” I ask, keeping my questions short and simple.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I already had this one,” he says, reaching for the brown parcel.