Page 9 of The Bodyguard

She’d taken the crash harder than she let on. He saw it in the way her fingers curled when she thought no one was watching, and in the slight tremble beneath the sarcastic remarks she liked to throw his way. She was hurting. Shaken. And she remained too stubborn to admit her fear.

He admired the hell out of that. It didn’t mean he’d let it compromise her safety.

Mitch rolled his shoulders and moved toward the sitting area where he’d dropped his bag. The soft cream-and-gold decor was… not his style. It felt like a luxury magazine cover had come to life—feminine, curated, calm. Every piece of furniture looked like it cost more than his entire wardrobe. He’d probably break one of those dainty-looking chairs just by sitting in it.

Still, he liked that it felt like her. Bold in subtle ways. Smart choices. Lush curves. Much like the woman herself.

He sat down in the high-backed armchair nearest the windows, choosing it over the too-elegant couch. He unzipped the duffel, pulled out the spare Glock he hadn’t let them see, and checked it out of habit. Fully loaded. Chambered. He placed it on the end table beside the lamp. She could get mad about that later.

The soft pad of bare feet across hardwood caught his attention. Andi entered the room wearing black leggings and an oversized T-shirt with some vintage band logo stretched across her chest. She looked both too casual and too stunning for his nerves to remain steady. Now, she had her hair pulled up in a messy knot on her head. No makeup. Eyes tired. Lips soft.

She paused when she saw the gun, then narrowed her eyes. “That supposed to make me feel safer?”

Mitch leaned back in the chair, one ankle casually resting on his knee. “You, no. Me, yes.”

She snorted, but there was no heat behind it. “I don’t suppose you believe in house rules.”

“Only the ones I make.”

She crossed her arms, hugging her middle. “And what are those?”

He let his eyes sweep her slowly, not missing the way she stiffened under the weight of his gaze. Not uncomfortable—just aware. Charged.

“You sleep in your own bed. You don’t lock your bedroom door, and you don’t go to bed until I’ve swept it and the attached bath. You unlock nothing that’s locked. You don’t leave without me knowing exactly when, where, and why. You will have an armed escort—usually me—with you at all times.”

“I don’t take orders in my home.”

“You do when someone’s trying to kill you.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The silence that followed said more than volume ever could.

Andi licked her lips, then sat on the arm of the couch—careful not to get too close.

“Have you always been like this?” she asked, voice quieter now. “Always this... in charge?”

He studied her, then gave a slow nod. “Some people break under pressure. I don’t. I take control because I’ve seen what happens when no one does.”

She tilted her head, studying him with something like curiosity. “It must be exhausting always being the immovable force.”

“Only when someone like you keeps trying to move me.”

A flicker of amusement passed over her face. But her voice, when she spoke again, was softer. “Do you ever let anyone else be in control?”

His jaw clenched. “No.”

Not in the field. Not in his life. Not in his bed, especially not in his bed.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Because even now—even bruised and vulnerable and clearly reeling from everything that had just happened—Andi still looked at him like she was two steps away from pushing his buttons just to see what would happen.

And part of him wanted her to.

He stood slowly, watching her eyes follow the movement. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat. But he saw the hitch in her breath. He moved closer. Just close enough to test the space between them. Not touching. Not quite.

“Go to bed, Andi.”

“I’m not tired.”

He arched an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Her chin lifted—defiant, but not as strong as she probably meant it to be. She wanted to push back. He saw it in every inch of her.

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