Page 13 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
I do, watching as he jogs to the gate and closes it again, giving it a tug to ensure it’s secure. I can’t help but notice how tall and broad he is. How strong the steely bulges of his shoulders and arms are. How utterly gorgeous he looks when the Texas sun bounces off the slight waves of his blue-black hair.
Every movement reminds me of how easily he lifted me, how solid and warm his chest felt against mine. I wonder how those hands would explore me when we aren’t running for our lives.
Then he turns and heads for me before offering me a hand out of the truck. As he leads me to the back door, flanked by a flagstone patio and a garden with colorful summery flowers, I try not to stare.
He stops beside the barbecue, opens the door around back, lifts the propane tank, then produces a key. “We’re in.”
Thank goodness. Now that we’ve reached relative safety, all I want is a shower, clean clothes, and I’m sad to say, a good cry.
But I buck up. “You lead. I’ll follow.”
His stare lingers on me for a disarmingly long moment before he inserts the key and turns the knob.
Inside, the place is homey with what looks like original wide-plank pine floors. A comfortable brown sofa takes up the far corner of the room. There are a few other mismatched chairs, all facing a massive TV on the nearest wall. A ceiling fan spins lazily above us, and the midday sun pours in through a bay window.
“Come in. I’ll give you a tour. It’ll be quick because the place isn’t big.”
“Sure.”
“Half bath through that door.” He points beyond the sofa. “And the kitchen…”
I follow to find it situated behind the far wall. The white cabinets and matching tile counters are from another age, but the range is new. I could cook here, for sure. Adjacent to that is a farm table in the nook space that seats six.
In the hallway, across from a pair of wide windows that show off the side yard, sits a state-of-the-art washer and dryer behind a pair of distressed doors that tell me the utility cubby was once a closet.
At the end of the hall is the first of the cottage’s two bedrooms. It’s inescapably romantic. The wall behind the bed is a floor-to-ceiling rustic wood detail with a wrought iron filagree design hanging just above the massive cherry-wood headboard. The bed itself looks like a queen-size cushion of white fluff, accompanied by a mountain of dreamy, lacy pillows. A chandelier completes the look, along with a petite bedside table that serves as both a nightstand and a desk.
The attached bath is small and painted in soft shades of gray, reminding me that this house was probably built a hundred years ago, maybe more. Whoever owns it has spruced up the bathroom with a pedestal sink, a stylish framed mirror, and a big claw-foot tub with an old-fashioned faucet. But I also see a shower head jutting from the wall. A little shelf nearby holds a stack of clean white towels.
“Except for the bedroom at the other end of the house with a set of bunk beds, that’s it.” Rand shrugs.
I’m fascinated by the way his massive shoulders work and the rippling of his arms. Hell, I’m fascinated by him in general.
But he’s not the reason I’m here, and I need to start thinking about things that are truly important, like who wants me dead.
“It’s cute.”
“Ransom’s friend sometimes rents it out to people he knows. During a holiday, he would usually be here, but he’s in the middle of a divorce…so it’s a no on the fun family getaways.”
I know how that goes. “I’m sorry to hear that. With bunk beds, I assume they have kids.”
“A girl and a boy, both almost teenagers now, I think.”
That makes the split even sadder. Or maybe just more familiar.
Rand takes my hand and leads me back down the hall. His fingers are calloused and strong, and I can’t help remembering how they gripped my hips during that kiss, holding me against him like he never wanted to let go.
He clears his throat and releases my hand, leaving me beside the sofa. “Let’s make a list of everything we need for now. I’m thinking we’ll be here a couple of days, maybe more.”
Until now, I haven’t given much thought about how long we’ll have to lie low. “You mean until we figure out who shot at me?”
“Or we can discern some other way to keep you safe long-term.”
Now that we’re here and I’m feeling calmer than I have in a few hours, one question pelts my brain. “Why are you doing this? Most bodyguards just get the client out of the dangerous situation and wash their hands.”
“It’s a fair question.” He lets out a breath. “Two reasons. First, I lost a client early in my career. A businessman on a trip to Mexico. It sucked, and I took a lot of heat for overlooking an angle of his protection. But I learned. Second, that’s where I met Rob, and it means the world to me that he trusted me, of all people, with you. I know he’s worked for you for a couple of years and I know he’s very fond of you.”
“He’s a good guy.” And it says a lot that he chose Rand to watch over me.
