Page 45 of The Bodyguard

She groaned. “Microwave a breakfast burrito.”

A knock pounded on her front door. She would have closed her bedroom door if she had had the presence of mind last night. That might have muffled Sawyer’s attempt to roust her. “You’re such a bully.”

He pounded on the door again.

“You’re going to wake the neighbors.”

He scoffed. “I brought coffee.”

Angela rolled onto her side. “You’re lucky I’m a caffeine junkie.”

“That’s what I was counting on.”

She hung up on him, tossed the phone, and tied her robe around her waist. Finger-combing her hair into something that bore less resemblance to a banshee’s, she answered the door and snagged her coffee.

Sawyer followed her inside. “You’re looking well-rested.”

“Bite me.”

He parked against the wall and sipped his coffee while she guzzled hers.

“Sawyer.” Her patience was short. The caffeine hadn’t had nearly enough time to hit her system. “Why are you here?”

“To get you out the door. Go get dressed.”

Angela’s eyebrows arched.

“Go get dressed.” He shooed her toward her bedroom. “Get ready to go Stateside.”

Angela maneuvered past him. What was he talking about? Right now? She had to get dressed to “get ready”?Come on, caffeine.She needed her brain to kickstart. “That’s not helping.”

After a minute of sitting on the edge of her bed, she heard his footsteps approach the bedroom. “You dressed?”

“If you mean not naked, then yes.”

He walked in. “Get out of bed.”

“I’m not in bed,” she protested. All of fifteen seconds had passed. What more did Sawyer expect of her before the sun had risen? “I don’t know what we’re doing, so I don’t know what to wear.”

Sawyer plucked her coffee from her hand—if she were more awake, she’d have protested or at least defended herself—then took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

“I don’t think I like you very much right now,” she muttered as he dragged her toward her walk-in closet.

They stopped in the middle of a small room. Shoes lined one wall, dresses another. Angela had her skirts and blouses near a vanity that held accessories. A fainting couch and matching upholstered bench held court in the middle of the space.

Sawyer let out a low whistle. “There’s a ton of crap in here.”

“Not how I’d describe it, but yes.”

“You’re very organized.”

“Very,” she agreed. “But it’s not helping me out right now. I don’t know what we’re doing, so how can I dress for success?” She cringed. The sentiment was true, but her control-freak personality was coming on a little too strong.

Sawyer snorted and turned from the rows of skirts arranged by length. “There’s not an outfit in here that’s going to make everything run smoothly.”

“You don’t know that.” She tugged haphazardly at a couple of options. “We need an agenda. How else am I supposed to know what to wear?”

He snickered. “Who knew you were so dramatic before coffee?” He took a long sip and wandered toward the vanity counter, where he studied the granite as though their day’s agenda were hiding in the flecks of white stone. “Look, I’m sorry I took off like that last night.”

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