Protecting Her Pride (Renegade Love Bodyguard Novel Book 2)

by Jade Webb

  In our short time together, we’d settled into an uncomfortable routine filled with unspoken words that we were both too proud to utter. Even in the safety of her home, we would cautiously co-exist, never staying in the same room together for too long, communicating in short, clipped sentences, and keeping eye contact to a bare minimum.

  And though we tried to keep things civil, Daphni was a fire cracker waiting to explode. She carried so much anger, and I could see that she was one fight away from murdering me in my sleep. Her hostility and my frustration at her never following any of the simple directions I gave her put me on edge, but I pushed it down, convincing myself that she wasn’t worth it. I wouldn’t let her get under my skin. But it turns out, I did have a limit. And I hit it at exactly seven thirty-two on a Sunday evening.

  “Daphni!” I call out as I follow her inside the house.

  She spins around to face me, propping her hands on her hips. “Yes, Roman?”

  “You didn’t enter in the code. You need to enter it once you close the door to have the alarm reset,” I explain through gritted teeth. I gave her the same speech each time she walked in the door.

  She dramatically stalks back to the door and punches in the code. It’s wrong and it beeps loudly. She punches it again, and again it beeps. When she moves to do it a third time, I capture her hand in mine and pull it back.

  “If you enter the wrong code more than three times, it sends the police.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault it doesn’t recognize the right code. It’s not that smart of a system, is it?”

  “It’s Sunday, Daphni.”

  “So?”

  “We change the codes every Saturday night. I emailed you the updated code.”

  She rolls her eyes and stares me down. It’s then that I realize my hand is still holding hers midair. Both our eyes move from our interlocked hands up to each other and as her green eyes lock on mine, I quickly drop her hand and punch in the code myself. “Read your emails,” I mutter under my breath.

  She lets out a huff of air before storming away up the stairs to her room.

  Frustrated, I walk into the back sitting room and pull out my phone. I’m overdue for a call to my parents. They’ve just started their cruise vacation, and while I don’t want to call them in my foul mood, I owe them a call.

  “Roman! How are you son? Did they catch the bastard yet?” my dad asks when he answers the call, shouting over the sound of muffled voices in the background.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Roman, dear, what’s wrong?” my mother asks, hearing the tension in my voice.

  I sigh and fall down onto the couch. “Dad, how did you deal with her?”

  My dad chuckles. “She is a bit of a handful, isn’t she?”

  “A bit?” I ask incredulously.

  “She has her moments, son. But she’s an artist. They’re always a bit…emotional.”

  “Emotional? Don’t you mean borderline psychotic?”

  “Son, that woman has more passion in her pinky finger than most people walking this green Earth. And considering the way she was raised, it’s a miracle she’s as normal as she is.”

  “Yeah,” I reply noncommittally, not having enough energy to ask him to clarify what exactly he means by “normal.”

  “Well, you must have seen something in her to have dated her for all those years?”

  I feel my pulse quicken as I lean forward. “What did you say?”

  “Oh, you thought I didn’t know?” my dad asks, amused.

  “Well, actually yeah,” I reply.

  “Son, you are as subtle as an elephant in a kitchen. You think I didn’t notice all those times I saw you both staring at each other? All those mysterious trips you took that coincided with Daphni’s convenient visits to her recently discovered aunt? Please, you two need to give me more credit.”

  “How come you never said anything?” I ask.

  “Because if you had wanted me to know, you would have told me.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “Besides, that poor girl has lived her whole life under a microscope. If she could have one thing to herself, just for her, I wasn’t going to take that away from her.”

  “So, since you clearly know everything, what do I do?”

  “Give her a chance, Roman. Be nice to her and she’ll open up. You’re both just too damn stubborn.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Son, I’m not telling you to marry the damn girl. But you need to fix whatever it is that broke between you because when you two separated, it broke something inside of her. I don’t care whose fault it was. You two had something special. Don’t forget that.” A loud horn blows in the distance. “Anyways, son, your mother and I have to run. We’re heading into port and we want to grab some souvenirs!”

  "I'm buying you a seagull keychain!" I hear my mother yell before the phone disconnects.

  I’m still in a bit of shock. My dad had known the entire time. And he hadn’t said anything. But he’s right. I need to fix this, because even though we’re sharing this 7,000-square-foot McMansion, we are driving each other crazy. We are one more disagreement away from engaging in a full on nuclear war, and I just don’t have it in me. So if it’s up to me to fix it, then I will.

  I take the pan off the burner and grab the cilantro. Chopping it into small pieces, I dust it over the tilapia, still simmering in the rich tomato sauce. I drain the fusilli next, then pour it into a spare bowl I’d found in the cabinet. I doubted Daphni had ever even used this kitchen, and most of the dishes and cookware still had their original price tags attached. Luckily, I was able to order a grocery delivery and throw together a relatively easy dish in the last hour. I was just waiting on the garlic bread to finish in the oven and the meal would be complete.

  I rummage through some more drawers to find a corkscrew, and find myself smiling when I locate four sets. No colander or can opener, but sure, four corkscrews. As I pop the bottle of Zinfandel open, a flash of pink catches my eye.

  Daphni is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen. She’s changed into some sort of pajama set, a black silk button-down paired with matching shorts. Her pink hair is plaited in two pigtails, and her face has all the makeup from the day removed, revealing the sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks.

  Shit. I feel my breath hitch in my throat as I see her. Except for the pink hair, she looks exactly the way she did ten years ago, the first time I saw her—the day I only realized later that I had hopelessly fallen in love with her.

  “Did you…cook?” she asks, her brow arching as she watches me with curiosity.

  “Yeah.”

  She slowly walks over, her inquisitive eyes watching as I grab a spoon and test the fish.

  “And are you planning on sharing any of this?” she asks.

  “Yes, of course,” I say as I turn to face her. “It’s my peace offering. To start us fresh.”

  A small smile creeps up her face and she nods approvingly. “Well, I like that.”

  “The garlic bread should finish in a minute,” I tell her. “Why don’t you set the table and I’ll finish up in here?”

  “Right. Set the table.” She moves through the kitchen, opening up each of the cabinet doors and sticking her head inside. Perching on her toes, she opens the cabinets on top and bites down on her lip when she can’t find what she’s looking for.

  I clear my throat and gesture to the cabinet by the fridge.

  “Ah, right,” she says, blushing a bit before scurrying over and grabbing two sets of plates, glasses, and silverware. She disappears into the attached dining room, and I grab the bowl of pasta and the fish. I carry it into the dining room, stopping in my tracks as I watch Daphni quickly shuffling around the dinner plates, first placing them across from each other, then side by side. Unsure of where to put them, she eventually settles on side by side. I smile despite myself and step into the room.

  “Here, let me set this down and I’ll grab the rest,” I offer before bringing the remaining food and wine into
the dining room and take the seat next to Daphni. The bright chandelier above us is set to a dim setting, and the jazz music I had playing in the kitchen spills softly into the room.

  “Bon appetit,” Daphni says, and I catch how nervous she sounds. She fidgets with her cellphone in her hand before finally placing it down on the table in front of her plate.

  “Well, dig in,” I say, offering her the salad bowl.

  We fix our plates and eat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. There is a palpable tension in the air, but different from the tension-filled disquiet that we had found ourselves in the past week. Tonight feels so different, more full of…expectation.

  “It’s really good,” Daphni says, breaking the silence with a warm, but awkward, smile.

  “Ma’s recipe.”

  She nods and opens her mouth, before snapping it shut again. Shaking her head, she reaches for her fork and spears another bite. Before the fork reaches her mouth, she brings it back down and places her small hand on mine, halting my movement.

  “Thank you for doing this. It…it means a lot," she whispers as she looks up at me.

  Almost hidden behind her thick lashes, in the dim light, her eyes appear to be a clear shade of a jade stone catching a bright morning light. Like everything about Daphni, I found I could spend hours looking into her eyes, studying her every look. She was a fascinating puzzle that I loved to put together. And seeing her now, with the light of the chandelier casting her in a pale glow, I realize her hold over me is just as powerful as seven years ago. She is just as alluring as the day I last saw her.

  “You’re welcome,” I reply. She doesn’t move her hand, and I feel the heat of her touch sear my skin. I wonder if she can feel it, too, if she can see how easy it is for her to affect me with just a touch of her hand.

  “You know, I still remember when you took me to that cottage in New Hampshire and made me that stew,” she says as she smiles at the memory. “I was so sick. I think I had bronchitis? And you drove in the snowstorm to bring me back NyQuil. Do you remember that day?”

  Of course, I remember that day. I remember everything.

  “I remember,” I confirm out loud for her. I feel all the air leave the room because I know, when she brings her eyes up to meet mine, that she is remembering exactly what I remember. What had happened later that day, after she had woken up from her NyQuil coma. When she had asked me to build a fire in that small log cabin we had holed ourselves up in. I had trekked out in the middle of a winter blizzard to get the wood for her damn fire. She had thought the fire would be romantic. And I could never say no to her. She had repaid me generously. We had made love in front of that fire, our bodies glistening with sweat from the heat of the flames licking us while I had thrust inside her, seeking my release as I gave her hers.

  “Sometimes I wish we could go back. Escape back to that cabin. Just the two of us,” she whispers as her hand moves to slowly caress mine. Like two magnets, we lean in, our bodies drawn to each other. Her touch, her smell, her taste: I absolutely remember everything. And after all these years, I still crave it.

  I whisper her name and she closes her eyes. I bring my lips down to hers. Our lips graze and I can feel the warmth of her breath hit me. I want this. As much as Daphni drives me crazy, there is a part of me that’s intrinsically linked to her, that desperately wants her.

  But like a punch to my gut, reality comes bursting through our trip down memory lane in the form of a loud beeping from Daphni’s phone on the table. Both our eyes find the phone at the same time.

  On her phone, in illuminated letters, is a text from Drizzle. I miss you, babe. Come over tonight. I’m so hard for you.

  My stomach sinks as I read the message. Daphni's eyes widen and a dark crimson rushes to her cheeks. She grabs the phone, turning it over.

  “It’s Drizzle,” she says, and I convince myself that I hear disappointment in her voice. But like everything with Daphni, I’m never really sure what is the truth.

  “It’s your boyfriend,” I clarify for her. My defenses are rebuilding, and I want to curse myself for almost falling for her again.

  “Roman, I—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, cutting her off.

  “It’s not fine. We should talk about this. I mean, we almost kissed—”

  “And it was a mistake. You have a boyfriend.”

  “He’s not—”

  “And I should never have done that. I have a girlfriend,” I blurt out.

  “A girlfriend?” Daphni asks, her brow shooting up in confusion.

  “Yes, and it would be shitty of me to do that to her,” I say.

  “A girlfriend?” she asks again, her voice filled with doubt.

  “Yes, a girlfriend,” I snap as I throw my napkin onto the table beside my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “It’s not. But you never mentioned her.”

  “I like to keep my personal matters personal.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend!” Daphni asks, exasperated.

  “Shakira,” I answer, wanting to end this conversation.

  “Shakira? Like the singer?”

  “If you’re asking me if I have been dating Shakira, the singer, then no. A different Shakira.”

  “How long have you been together?”

  “Two years.”

  “Two years,” she repeats, and I swear I catch a flash of disappointment in her eyes.

  “Is this interrogation over?” I ask as I push up out of the chair, grabbing my plate to bring back to the kitchen.

  “It’s not an interrogation. I just think it’s crazy that you have a girlfriend and I don’t even know about it.”

  “It’s not your business. You sign my paychecks, nothing more.”

  The words cut through Daphni and I know it. Although I regret them the instant they leave my mouth, I want her to hurt as badly as she hurt me. It’s pathetic, and cruel, and I hate myself for it. So before I can see the hurt on her face, I turn and walk away.

  11

  Daphni

  I punch my pillow for the twelfth time tonight before I roll over and squeeze my eyes closed, willing my body to sleep. It’s a pointless task, and I let out a frustrated groan before reaching over to my nightstand and grabbing my phone.

  It’s four in the morning, and I know I’m not going to be getting any sleep tonight. The text message from Drizzle is still unopened on my home screen.

  I miss you, babe. Come over tonight. I’m so hard for you.

  I cringe again as I remember the expression on Roman’s face as he read that message. The look of shock, of disgust. I feel embarrassed just thinking about it.

  I hate that I’m so embarrassed. Seriously, screw Roman! He is just as much of a sleaze, kissing me when he has a girlfriend. Of two years! How did it not even cross my mind that he might have a girlfriend? Shakira. What kind of name was that, anyways?

  Obviously it was the name of some exotic, gorgeous woman—the kind of woman who was effortlessly beautiful, had flawless, perpetually tan skin, and long dark hair. She was sultry and had a sexy accent. She probably spoke a few languages, knew how to cook, was sophisticated and elegant. She was likely everything I wasn’t, since he made it painfully clear that I was the epitome of everything that annoyed and irritated him.

  I clap my hands, turning on the lights, and make my way to the bathroom. The generous overhead lights are not very kind this morning as I prod the large bags under my eyes. Since Roman had moved in, I’d slept so well. Now I’m back to insomnia, and looking like an extra from The Walking Dead. Fantastic.

  I splash cold water on my face and crawl back into bed with my laptop. I scroll through my social media, taking some time to answer a few questions on Twitter and “like” some fan art on Instagram. I relish quiet moments like these, when I can take the time to respond to those fans whose unflagging loyalty never fades. After a while, I switch to my privat
e account, the one where I post silly photos of me and my niece, Isabel, and screenshots of the stupid memes and texts that my brother Lawrence sends me. Gabby’s feed is just a long series of pictures with all her law school books piled high, with dorky captions about how thrilled she is to be learning torte review, whatever that is. Every few pictures, she’ll post a cute selfie with her gorgeous boyfriend, Liam. He posts less frequently, and his whole page is basically a shrine to Gabby, featuring one picture after another with her. Lawrence isn’t much better: all his posts feature his leading lady, Isabel. I worry about his obsession with his daughter. I don’t think he’s been on a date in years, and he sends me far too many pictures of him hosting tea parties with his daughter’s teddy bear collections. I want to ridicule him for it, but he looks so happy. They all do.

  A loud yawn escapes from my mouth and I decide it’s time for me to end the pity party and get my morning coffee. I pad out to the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks when I see Roman, shirtless and wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants that, if they fell just a half inch lower, could shred what little self-restraint I possess and force me back upstairs to grab my dusty vibrator from the nightstand and lock myself away for the morning.

  I push those thoughts away, remembering that Shakira (ugh, I still can't say that name without wanting to vomit) is in the picture. Just the thought of her makes the tingling in my lady bits from seeing a half-naked Roman start to dissipate. I take a step closer and overhear Roman in a very heated argument with my coffee machine as he repeatedly presses the power button, grunting with annoyance when nothing happens.

  “You managed to piss off my coffee machine, too?” I ask, relishing the look of surprise on his face as he whips around to face me.

  “It’s idiotic!" he bellows, shoving a hand through his hair in frustration. "The thing makes no goddamn sense. I just want a cup of coffee.”