Page 11 of Crossing the Line
“Sorry about your gun. I didn’t realize you were wearing one,” she said, setting the second glass down in front of him.
He gave a harsh half-laugh. “Thanks for not destroying my phone.”
Sarcasm? Perhaps there was something human in him after all.
“What’s that?” he asked, eyeing the shamrock green liquid.
“Green juice. Or as I like to call it, garbage juice. Louie makes us drink pitchers of it when we’re home. If I have to deal with you on a daily basis, the least you can do is help me with my share.”
“You threw me in the pool.”
“Nothing wrong with your short-term memory,” Waverly quipped.
Xavier racked the slide and double-checked the safety before stowing the gun in a shoulder harness.
“Have a seat, Waverly,” he said. His tone was calm, mild even. But the look in those eyes was hard, dangerous. Warning bells went off in her head.
She sat on the overstuffed armchair, avoiding the cushion next to him. Interlacing her fingers, she crossed her legs. The picture perfect listener.
“This may seem like a game to you,” Xavier began, his tone was that of a professor instructing a deficient student. “But the real world isn’t just parties and pretty dresses.”
For a complete stranger, he had an uncanny knack for putting her back up.
“I am well aware of that—”
“I don’t think you are,” he cut her off, his tone clipped. “You seem to be operating under the misconception that you aren’t an easy target. Those photographers could have gotten you killed, but you were too pissed off that Daddy wouldn’t give you the keys to the Jag or whatever the argument was to take even the basic safety precautions. That all stops now.”
Red began to creep into the edge of Waverly’s vision. He was baiting her. He wanted her to throw a temper tantrum so he could prove that he was right, that she was just a spoiled little rich girl.God, why did everyone have to push her for a reaction?One of these days, she was going to get sick and tired of being pushed around, and she was going to give them all a reaction they’d never forget.
“My life is not a game,” she said icily. “It’s already as close to a prison as I’m willing to get. Having you lurking over my shoulder every time I step outside my door is not an option. I can’t live like that.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
And that was it. The problem. She didn’t have a choice.
She leaned forward. “I’m twenty years old. That’s legally an adult by anyone’s standards. I sign contracts. I vote. I pay taxes. I should be making my own decisions.”
“An adult doesn’t throw a hissy fit and stomp her feet when things don’t go her way,” Xavier pointed out. “An adult doesn’t knowingly take unnecessary risks just because she’s having a bad day.”
“Let’s get this straight,” she said quietly, picking up her glass of juice and sipping. “Your opinion of me—low as it is—means nothing. I don’t need or want your approval on how I choose to live.”
It was his turn to lean forward. Anger and something else smoldered in his gaze. “While we’re getting things straight, I’m not some ass-kissing lackey who’s going to bring you lattes. I’m here to do a job, and that’s to protect you. So you can play the spoiled little rich girl card all you want, but there are two truths that you need to accept.”
He held up a finger. “One, there are people who, for whatever reason, wouldn’t mind seeing you hurt. Two—” he held up a second finger. “You have people in your life who, for whatever reason, want to keep you around. I am here to make sure that’s what happens. And if you have a problem with that, I don’t give a shit.”
“And yet you’d take a bullet for me. Now, who’s the one taking unnecessary risks?” she shot back.
Xavier picked up his glass. “You can throw your temper tantrums and play your little princess games all you want. But I’m sticking, and I will win.” He knocked back the juice and downed it.
Waverly had to give him points for not flinching. Louie’s recipe ran heavy on the celery and kale.
She could handle his assumptions about her. No one saw the person under the Hollywood polish. And who was she to disappoint him? If he wanted a spoiled rich bitch to shadow, she’d give him one.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Are you listening to me, Kate?” Marisol admonished Waverly’s assistant and friend.
“Nope,” the blonde in the ball cap said, leaning over the sink to get a better view through the windows. Two inches shy of Waverly’s five-foot-eight, Kate moved like a roller derby diva. Everything about her was energetic, edging toward frenetic. She chewed gum as if her life depended on it and preferred speed in all things. She wore her hair, a shade or two darker than Waverly’s silvery blonde, in a perpetual ponytail.
