Page 7 of Songbird
“But…”
I’m annoyed by how long it takes me to recover from the shock, but when I do, my default settings switch into gear and I lean into them to recenter. I scan the car and decide it’s probably not hers—Rosalie Thorne uses a driver and a town car. It’s also empty, which means she’s alone. And she’s never supposed to be alone.
“Where’s your security?”
Her jaw tenses and her elfin chin lifts a little. “I gave them the slip.”
I exhale through my nose and reply through gritted teeth. “Why?”
“Because I’ve left Chip.”
“You—”
“And he doesn’t know it yet.”
“He doesn’t—”
I cut myself off with a quiet grunt, widen my stance, and cross my arms over my chest, reflexively assuming the posture that makes me feel most in control. I’m glad she left that jerk—he made my skin crawl—but I can read between the lines. She’s here because if she hasn’t already set her life on fire, it’s aboutto go up in a white-hot blaze of fucking drama. And I’m not available for drama.
“Actually, that might be a lie,” she continues. “It took me hours to find this place. He must know I’m gone by now.”
“Which again raises the question: why are you here?”
“Because I need your help.”
“You needmyhelp?”
Rosalie sighs and raises a hand to her forehead to block the glare from the afternoon sun. “Yes, so can I please come in?”
“You fired me, Rosalie.”
Using her first name feels almost illicit—as her bodyguard, I only ever referred to her as Miss Thorne—but I’m not her bodyguard anymore, and I want to be sure she knows it.
Maybe I also want her to remember why.
“I didn’t fire you,” she says. “Chip did.”
The sound of that asshole’s name on her lips again sets off a spasm in my neck. “Same difference.”
She blinks like she doesn’t know how to answer that, then says, “Well, now I’m rehiring you.”
“I don’t want the job.”
“I’ll pay you double what you made last year. Triple.”
“I’m not for sale.”
I meet her glare for glare until her shoulders drop and she releases a sad breath. She looks around like she’s only now realizing she’s on her own in the middle of nowhere.
“Can I use your bathroom?” she asks as the stubbornness melts from her spine. “Grab a glass of water before I drive back?”
Fuck. Iaman asshole.
“Yeah. Of course.” I open her car door, as if that one little gesture will make up for forgetting my manners, and groan. This is the problem with money and fame and celebrities. Everything’s a freaking circus.
“What are you wearing?”
Standing on the driver’s seat with her head sticking out the roof of the car, Rosalie looks down at her dress. It’s a strapless style, leaving the fine bones at the base of her neck bare. Folds of lace fall from the bodice around her upper arms and encase her to the wrists, and the skirt is so billowy I have to stop myself from asking how she could be irresponsible enough to drive in it. The whole thing is layered with delicate embroidery and intricate bead work, and even though I know nothing about fashion or bridal couture, I do know my brother’s girlfriend designed this dress, and Violet is the best there is.
