Page 1 of Songbird
Prologue: Finn
ONE YEAR EARLIER
Istalkdownthevacant hotel hallway toward the doors to the penthouse suite, parsing the commentary running through my earpiece and scanning an intersecting corridor for threats. America’s reigning princess of pop, Rosalie Thorne, walks behind me while two other protection officers bring up the rear. Our goal? To deliver the global superstar to her home for the night.
After a sweep of her suite to make sure it’s safe to enter, I return to the doors and let her slip inside. Her chin is dipped, her eyes on the carpeted floor, and her murmuredthank youis barely audible under her breath.
“Stay alert,” I warn the team before they take up stations in the hallway, one by the door and the other by the elevator. “Shift’s not over for another six hours.”
They nod without hesitation, used to taking my orders even though I’ve only been on the job for two months, but the looks they give me barely hide their thoughts. Linley is mildly curious, but as a skilled bodyguard with a long career behindher, she must have seen worse than a client favoring the new former SEAL over personnel with little personal protection experience. Brewer, on the other hand, is a dick. He smirks like he knows something he shouldn’t, and if thatsomethingis the presumption that I’m doing more than guarding Rosalie’s bed at night, he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Barely.
Whatever. I don’t give a shit about his opinion, and I don’t have the energy for workplace politics. Rosalie Thorne is my client, and if she prefers me to shadow her over anyone else, then so be it. I’m not here to launch a new career. I’m here as a favor to a friend and to keep a woman alive. That’s it and that’s all.
I double-check that the exit is secure and then take my place outside Rosalie’s en suite bathroom. The door is ajar and steam billows out into the bedroom. I lean into the opening so she can hear my voice, carefully averting my eyes from the shape of her petite silhouette behind the foggy glass.
“Everything all right in there, Miss Thorne?” I call out.
“I’m fine,” she responds in a dreamy tone that tells me she’s enjoying the hot water.
Satisfied she’s safe, I stand at ease and murmur into my earpiece. “Songbird has landed.”
And then I wait.
When the water cuts off, I step outside the bedroom to give Rosalie her privacy. Ten minutes later, she reappears wrapped in one of those white terry-cloth robes she likes so much. Her damp blonde waves hang down her back, her cheeks are pink from the steam, and her mouth is stained with the remnants of her trademark coral-pink lipstick. I follow her to the kitchen, and when she orders room service—a pitcher of hot cocoa and two mugs, the same as always—I stand in the corner as she slides onto a high-backed chair at the oversized dining table. And just as she’s done every night for the first eight weeks of her six-month world tour, Rosalie dips into the pocket of her robe and pulls out a ratty old deck of cards.
“Gin rummy?” she asks.
At the slight shake of my head, she drops hers to the side and pushes her lush lips into a pretty pout. “This will be the last time,” she promises. “Ifyou can beat me. Best out of five.”
“Miss Thorne.” I keep my voice flat and professional. “I’m on duty. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“That’s not what you said last night.” Her baby blues sparkle with mischief. Her laugh is musical and light as she shuffles the cards like my surrender is inevitable, even when I give her nothing in return.
“Oh, come on,” she says with a sigh. “Just until I’m tired enough to sleep?” When I hesitate again, she rolls her eyes. “The suite is clear. Brewer and Linley are outside. I’m still coming down from the high of playing to a stadium with fifty thousand screaming fans. I need to unwind.”
“With gin rummy?” I deadpan.
“Yes. And warm almond milk.”
“Miss Thorne—”
“Don’t make me get bossy. You know how I hate throwing my weight around.” She smiles a little, like she’s trying to make a joke, but then her throat bobs in a nervous swallow. “And you also know I can’t sleep otherwise.”
Yeah. I do know that.
I calculated the risks the first time I gave in, but I still reevaluate the variables again now. We’re in the penthouse in the best hotel with the highest security standards in New Orleans. We’ve swept the floor as well as the suite, and any threat to Rosalie’s safety needs to get through Linley and Brewer before it reaches her door. And in the unlikely event that happens, they’re never getting through me.
Judging that the risk of danger is low enough to play a game of cards with the client at her request, I lower myself into the chair opposite Rosalie and wait as she deals. When I reach out to swipe up the hand that belongs to me, she stops me with a tentative brush of her fingers on mine. Her skin is unnaturally warm from her shower, and my heart rate kicks up a little.
It shouldn’t matter that she’s beautiful. Any other bodyguard probably wouldn’t notice it. Another bodyguard wouldn’t let her touch him like this either. Another bodyguard would remind himself that she has a boyfriend, and a public profile, and a life that’s really fucking complicated. But I ignore all of that and keep my hand exactly where it is under hers.
“Thank you,” she says, but something about the way she says it makes me wonder what she’s thanking me for.
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
A knock sounds on the suite door, sharp and urgent, and I stand while speaking into my earpiece. “Is that room service?”
The lack of response from the team makes my hackles rise, and I drop into a mode of operation I’ve only ever used on duty. Focused. Lethal. “Brewer? Linley? What’s the situation?”
