by Karina Halle
It sure is stunning, though. The only way through is via a narrow road that cuts through the middle of the peninsula like an artery lined with evergreen arbutus trees, their peeling red bark as thin and delicate as Japanese rice paper. On either side are houses hidden by tall cedar fences, each with a witty name like Henry’s Haven and Oceanside Retreat carved up on custom-made signs. Between the houses you can catch glimpses of the ocean, the sun glinting off it in such a way that shivers run down your spine. That glint at this time of day tells me that summer is in full swing, and summer is my dreaming period.
I’m already dreaming about getting a mug of tea and heading down to the dock to enjoy the sun when I suddenly have to slam on my brakes.
Instead of the usual deer or quail family crossing the road, there’s a very tall, broad-shouldered tree of a man standing in the middle of the road at the top of the small hill, holding his hand out to me like he’s trying out for the Supremes.
Shit. Pins and needles start to form in my lungs, my heart pounding. My anxiety has no problems jumping to the worst-case scenario, and it’s always that something has happened to my mother while I was at work. There’s not a moment when that exact fear isn’t lurking at the back of my mind, so the fact that there’s a very grim-faced stranger in a dark suit striding downhill toward me makes me think my worst nightmare is going to come true.
My window is already rolled down, so I hear him say, “Excuse me, miss?” in a very strong, raspy British accent. He’s more curt than sympathetic, which makes me calm just a little.
“Yes? What’s wrong?” I ask him, trying not to panic.
Now that he’s up close, I can get a better look at him. His suit is navy blue with a touch of teal, looking sharp and well-tailored, with a pressed white shirt underneath and a dark gray tie. It’s the kind of suit that screams money, and not the kind of money that the people on this street have, more of a worldly, next-level kind of money. The kind that class brings.
He’s also way more imposing up close, built like a Douglas fir, barrel-chested and sturdy in a graceful way. My eyes trail up to his face and see that it matches the brusqueness of his voice. He’s got aviator sunglasses on that reflect my own bewildered expression (and make me realize my hair is a blond rat’s nest from driving with the window down), but even so, I can feel his eyes on me. If they’re anything like the wrinkles in his forehead and the seemingly permanent line etched between his dark arched brows, then I’m definitely intimidated.
There’s also something about him that’s vaguely familiar, but for the life of me I can’t recall why. It’s like he reminds me of a famous actor or something.
“I need you to turn around,” he says stiffly, making a motion for me to pivot and go.
“But I live here,” I protest.
The line between his brows deepens, and his full mouth sets into a hard line. This man is no joke. He jerks his very strong, manly, bearded chin down the road. “I’m going to need you to turn around,” he repeats.
I blink at him. “I’m sorry, but who even are you? I’m not turning around. I live here. And if you don’t let me go home to my mother, who, by the way, suffers from DPD and BPD, she’s going to end up calling the police when I don’t show up. Hell, I’ll call the police right now and report you.”
The man stares at me, and I stare right back at my frazzled reflection, my eyes drifting briefly to notice that his ears stick out, just a little. That bit of information is enough to take the intimidation factor down a notch.
When he finally speaks, I expect him to ask me to leave again, but instead he asks, “What’s DPD?”
I sigh. I didn’t mean to drag my mother’s mental illness into this. In fact, there are very few people around me who know exactly what she has, so the fact that I told him—this very commanding, rude British stranger in a suit—the truth feels wrong.
“It stands for dependent personality disorder. And before you ask about BPD, that stands for borderline personality disorder.”
He raises his chin, and I’m not sure if this is an act of defiance or if he’s going to ask me further questions that he can obviously go and Google later. Then he says in his low, raspy voice, “What’s your address?”
I’m about to tell him, but I stop myself. “Wait a minute, you never told me who you are. Why should I tell a stranger my address? You think I want to see your face peeping through my window while I’m sleeping?”
His frown amplifies. “You think I’m a Peeping Tom?”
“I don’t know. Is your name Tom?”
“It’s Harrison,” he says reluctantly. “Harrison Cole, PPO. And I’m afraid that unless you prove you live where you say you do, you’ll have to turn around. I’ve been turning away cars all day, and I have no problems doing it to you.”
Wow. What an asshole. I clear my throat. “Sorry, Harrison Cole? Is that a made-up name or your real name?”
He grunts in response, and if his brows furrow any deeper, I’m afraid his face might split in two.
I continue, no longer intimidated by him and his overtly manly, gruff ways. “And since you asked me what DPD stood for when you should have minded your own business, I’m going to have to ask you what a PPO is. Petty paralegal oaf? Perfectly pissy oligarch?”
“Personal protection officer,” he booms. “By order of Her Majesty, the Queen of the United Kingdom.”
I blink at him as things slowly come together in my brain. “Like a bodyguard? Are you . . . oh my god, are you Eddie and MRed’s bodyguard?”
He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to. It dawns on me, one big bright lightbulb going on in my head, that the reason I thought he looked familiar isn’t because he’s an actor but because I have seen him in the tabloids and on the news. Usually out of sight but sometimes in the background behind Eddie and Monica. He’s the one the public (or at least the voracious users of the #FairfaxFans hashtag on Twitter) has dubbed the Broody Bodyguard and Sexy Secret Agent, and I’ve stumbled across more than a few fanfics about him. (And by stumbled, I mean purposefully devoured. For my podcast . . . )
And he’s standing here, in front of me, telling me to go. Which means that the royal couple have to be farther up the road!
“I’ll let you go to your house if you can prove you live there,” the infamous Broody Bodyguard eventually says. “Let me see your driver’s license.”
Oh . . . that.
Shit.
Two
I stare at the Sexy Secret Agent for a moment, wondering if he’ll even believe my excuse. “I . . . I don’t have it,” I tell him.
I can feel him studying me with disbelief. “You don’t have your driver’s license?”
“I know, I know. I had it this morning, but a kid puked in my bag. Sicky Nicky, the kids called him. It was my fault, really.”
“A kid did what?” Then he shakes his head. “Likely excuse.”
He’s got to be joking if he thinks that’s an excuse. I’m used to the-dog-ate-my-homework excuses at work, and generally the more outlandish they are, the more they seem to be true. I mean, unless their homework was eaten by velociraptors or something.
“I’m serious,” I tell him. “I was planning on going after work to get a new one, but the whole town has gone crazy because, well, you’re in town.”
“Then I’m sure you can produce your insurance papers,” he says calmly, folding his hands at his crotch, my eyes following. “They should have your address on them.”
I quickly look away from his crotch and open the glove compartment, a whole bunch of empty Tic Tac containers rolling out onto the floor.
“Uh,” I say, rummaging through the containers and a wild, loose stack of papers, looking up over my shoulder at the PPO, who is watching me with raised brows. At least he’s not frowning. “Sorry. Just a minute.”
“That’s a lot of Tic Tacs.” A pause. “You must hav
e very fresh breath.”
Is he making . . . a joke? Does he even know what a joke is?
My hands close over the plastic covering of my insurance papers, and I breathlessly sit back in my seat, handing them to him with aplomb. “I do have fresh breath. I stress-eat them.”
Probably didn’t need to add the second part.
He takes the papers from me and opens the plastic, pulling out what’s inside. He holds it far away from him, glancing at the papers underneath, and then turns it over to me.
“Miss, this is a letter to Santa Claus from some girl named Chamomile.” He then slides another piece of paper in front of it as if he’s a lawyer producing damning evidence during a trial. “This is a letter from a boy named Spruce who wants a bongo drum for Christmas.”
“What?” I reach out and snatch the papers from him. There’s a letter from Chamomile, from Spruce, from Jet, from Eunice. Shit. Now I know where I put all those Christmas letters I promised I’d mail last year.
“Interesting names,” he comments. “I can’t tell if you’re a schoolteacher or the matriarch of a hippie commune.”
“Most definitely the former.” I lean back over the passenger side and start rifling through the glove compartment again. There are rabies shot papers from the vet for my dog, Liza, two Sarah MacLean historical romances, a million receipts. I think for a moment that I’ve found the papers, but I quickly realize that what I’m holding is just the menu for our local noodle bar.
“Miss, I’m sorry, but I’ve dealt with a lot of people like you before,” I hear him say as I frantically start ripping everything apart. “You make up any excuse but don’t have the evidence to back it. I gather that you aren’t a photographer or journalist and probably just a super fan, but either way, you’re going to have to leave before I call the police.”
I straighten up, my hair messy, my face red and vaguely sweaty. I narrow my eyes at his aviators. “What do you mean, you don’t think I could be a journalist?”
He sighs, sounding tired, and does that dismissive hand wave thing again. “If you please.” Then he pauses, seeing something in the distance. “Finally.”
I crane my neck to look behind me. It’s a cop car, the SUV of our chief of police, Bert Collins, pulling up behind me.
“Oh thank god,” I say out loud, much to the surprise of Agent Grump.
Bert gets out of the SUV and strolls toward us. “Sorry I’m late,” Bert says to Mr. Broody. “Got held up in town. Utter madness.”
“Bert!” I cry out before the PPO can get a word in. I practically hang my upper body out the window. “Hey!”
“Hey there, Piper,” he says, his mustache moving as he speaks. Bert has a mustache that would strike envy in the hearts of both Tom Selleck and Kenny Rogers, like someone stuck a densely bristled shoe-shine brush to his upper lip.
“Bert, one of the kids threw up in my handbag today and I had to throw it away and it had my wallet in it. I was going to get a temporary license after school, but the town looked crazy.” I side-eye Harrison before I continue. “And this guy doesn’t believe that I live here.”
Bert folds his arms. “You know you can get in trouble for driving without a license.” He sighs and looks to Harrison with a jovial expression. “But I can vouch for her.”
“She doesn’t have her insurance papers either,” Harrison blurts out.
What the actual fuck? This dude is throwing me under the bus now.
Bert frowns at me in overblown disappointment, and I can’t help but cringe. “Is this true? You’re driving around without a license and without insurance papers?”
I give him a shaky smile. “I was just in the middle of looking for them when you showed up. Hold on.”
I’m about to turn back to the rummage pile when Bert says, “No, it’s fine. I trust you’ll find them.” He looks back at Harrison. “She’s okay. She lives at the big property at the very end.”
Harrison’s frown deepens, a canyon between his brows. “But that’s where . . . that’s the real estate in question. We were told it was unoccupied, no renters.”
“She lives in the guest cottage.”
The PPO’s forehead wrinkles like a shar-pei.
“It’s a separate property,” I point out. “Back in the day, it was the guest quarters for the main house. For the help and all that. My mom bought it five years ago when it had just been subdivided into two different properties. We share a driveway, but that’s it.”
I know I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel the resentment in them, the fact that he’s going to be sharing a driveway with me.
Oh. Wait a minute.
I’m going to be sharing a driveway with them.
Holy shit.
They’re going to be my neighbors!
“Nothing is final,” Harrison quickly says, reading my building excitement. “I don’t even know if they’ll want to rent it or not. They’re just looking at their options.”
Bert shrugs with one shoulder. “If they don’t, there are plenty of other properties on the island that might suit them. Privacy, space, we have that in spades.” He pauses. “That said . . . are you sure they really want to move here? I mean, no offense, but judging from how the town was today, I’m not sure our fair little island can handle it.”
“I’m sure they’ll take that into consideration,” Harrison comments, in a way that says they most likely won’t.
“So, am I free to go home now?” I ask.
“Of course,” Bert says, but Harrison holds out his hand in that “stop” gesture again. My goodness, he has large hands.
“Just a minute, Miss Chamomile.”
“Piper,” I say imploringly. “My name is Piper. Chamomile is the name of one of my students.” He’s smart enough to remember my name, so it’s obvious he’s just doing this to be a dick.
“Because you share a driveway, I have to trust you not to go up to the property or take any pictures or tip off anyone or . . . You know what? I’ll escort you to your house.”
I jerk my chin back, which I’m sure is very flattering. “You will not.” I look at Bert with wide eyes. “He can’t escort me.”
Bert’s mustache twitches with sympathy. “The royals are a part of our commonwealth, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police is in charge of providing their overall safety when they visit. I can escort you, Piper, if you want, but if they are calling for it, then I’m afraid I have no choice but to provide the service.”
“They aren’t calling for it. He is.” I side-eye Harrison again.
His face could be made of stone. “As head of security for the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax, I make the calls, and my word is law.”
Whoa. That’s dramatic. I glance at Bert, thinking I’ll catch a hint of a smile buried under his lip bush, but to my surprise, he’s looking at Harrison in awe.
Bert finally wipes the fanboy expression off his face and looks at me. “I’m still more than happy to escort you, if you’re not comfortable with this gentleman.”
Oh great. Now it sounds like I’m scared.
“I’m absolutely comfortable with this . . . man.” I make a weak gesture to him. “I’ve never had a male escort before, so why not start now?”
I flash him an overly cheery smile, and he grunts at me in response.
With a heavy exhale, he nods at Bert. “Do you mind blocking the road while I escort this woman to her house? No one is allowed through unless they have proof of address.”
“No problem,” Bert says, and then he goes and actually salutes the man.
Harrison nods in response, and then to my surprise he walks around the front of the car and opens the passenger door. For some reason I thought he would walk beside my car or something like that, like . . . escort me. Not actually get in the car with me.
I don’t think I’m ready for this level of intimacy.
But he pauses, half in the car, which seems far too small for his massive frame, eyeing the disaster on the seat. I quickly start picking up all the junk with both hands and throwing it in the back seat.
Finally he sits down, his knees comically rammed against the glove compartment.
“There’s a lever at the side,” I tell him, “to adjust your seat.”
He moves the lever back and forth until the seat slams all the way to the back.
THWACK!
For a dude who probably had to do some epic training with crazy dangerous situations, he seems completely out of sorts in the fuzzy green seat.
I try not to laugh, especially since he looks so serious as he dutifully buckles himself in. He looks down at the seats and the dice.
“Interesting décor. Did you skin Oscar the Grouch?”
“Pretty much,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re used to riding around in Bentleys and whatnot.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, just faces straight ahead. I glance out the window, hoping for some camaraderie from Bert, but he’s just as serious and gives me the nod to keep driving.
Of course, my car hates this small hill normally, so since we’re at a standstill, I have to press my foot down on the gas and hold it there until the RPMs are going wild and it takes off like a shot.
Okay, it takes off like an injured baby impala. One big jerk forward, followed by pathetic hops, and maybe Harrison was right about making sure he was strapped in, because it looks like he’s already succumbing to whiplash.
“Sorry,” I cry out as the car finally gets going and we chug up to the top of the hill. “Not long now.”
It’s actually only about thirty seconds down the slight slope to the very end of the undulating peninsula, but it manages to feel like a million years with this British beast of a man trapped in my car. He’s so big that his shoulder brushes against mine from time to time, and I can feel the heat off him. Doesn’t help that it’s warm outside and I don’t have air conditioning. I also can’t tell if it’s him that smells like balsam and sea salt or if it’s the air outside.