Page 51 of Some Like 'Em Burly
Now Peter’s still out there, scheming and stalking and being gross, and I know that, but I’m not afraid of him. Not for the next… twenty three hours, at least.
“These are lovely,” a woman in a suit says, picking up the candles to sniff them one by one. I beam at her, sitting straighter in my chair, so tragically pleased to get complimented in front of Axel.
See, I want to say to him.I’m not a total mess.
“Which do you like best?” the woman asks my bodyguard, pinning him with her no-nonsense gaze. “I want to buy one for my husband. Which do you recommend?”
Pressing my lips together, I turn and stare up at the man standing behind my shoulder. Axel leans against the market wall, arms folded across his chest, and I know from all my stolen glances so far that he’s been scanning the crowd non-stop, onconstant alert for danger. He jolts now, dragging his attention back to the stall like a fisherman drawing in a line.
“What?” he says.
I wince.
“Your favorite.” The woman’s suit is cut nicely, like it’s tailored for her. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to feel scratty in my ripped jeans and sweater. “Which candle do you like best?”
Axel grunts, then frowns down at the candles, scanning the labels. He hasn’t sniffed a single one yet, and it’d be totally fair for him to say so—he’s my bodyguard, not a sales assistant. He doesn’t owe me this help.
Yet Axel points at a cluster of candles by the table’s edge: ginger and sour apple. “Those ones.”
Thirty seconds later, the woman’s card swishes through the card reader, and she plunges back into the crowd with a box tucked under her arm. I laugh happily and turn to my new, completely unexpected white knight. Yes, I hired this man to watch my back for twenty four hours—but I didn’t pay him to help me sell my wares. I’m so grateful to finally have someone on my side, I could sing.
Axel’s still leaning against the wall, his motorcycle leathers straining at his bulky shoulders and strong arms. He raises a dark eyebrow when he catches me staring.
“You’re the best,” I say.
Axel’s cheeks turn pink above his beard. He looks a whole lot less mean when he blushes like that.
“I’m going to find us another chair.” I start to get up. “Wait here.”
But a huge hand lands on my shoulder, gentle but firm, pinning me in my seat.
“That’s not how this works,” Axel says. “Youwait here, and stay where I can see you. I’ll go find something.”
My mouth is dry, and the heat of his calloused palm scorches the bare skin of my shoulder. As long as this man’s hand is on my body, my insides are rioting, with tiny fireworks going off in my belly. Crap, is this normal?
“…Okay.”
My bodyguard squeezes past me, careful not to knock any candles over, his leathers creaking softly and his scent drawing into my lungs. Soap and rain and something electric, like the air just before a thunderstorm.
Hurry back, I want to call, and not just because I feel so vulnerable and exposed without him gone.
Because my bodyguard is an addictive presence.
* * *
The sky dims high above the domed glass ceiling, and electric lanterns glow to life around the maze of the market hall. Everything is cast with a warm glow, and the crowd gradually shifts from daytime shoppers to the after-work crowd, rubbing shoulders in their finely cut suits.
A few new stalls open up in the food section, their wire grates trundling up as they open for business. Curries and pizzas and tacos, everything smelling so delicious. Suddenly alcohol is for sale, and the crowd gets louder, looser, all while I’m tucked safely behind my table, my chair so close to Axel’s that our legs keep brushing.
Every time they do, every time there’s that split-second of contact, the air hiccups in my lungs. And Axel’s so big and broad that we accidentally nudge each other often, reaching over to pass each other candles and the card reader, so by the time the evening draws in, I’m a squirmy mess.
“How’d you get into this?” Axel asks. He’s leaning forward, fussing over the candle display, and I can’t help watching theshift of his back muscles beneath his dark red t-shirt. He shucked his leather jacket an hour ago, draping it over the back of his borrowed chair.
“My mom,” I start to say, but my voice cracks and I have to try again. Axel pauses, then settles back into his seat to listen, his eyes scanning the crowd. “My mom used to make candles as a hobby. It was kinda her thing, and she taught me when I was about twelve. Then it wasours,the thing we did together. After she died…”
I trail off, pulse thudding in my ears. Even years later, I hate talking about this. Hate thinking about it, even though it crosses my mind every hour of every day, and I’m pretty sure it will for the rest of my life.
A big hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes me there, and it’s the same touch from earlier, but this time I lean into it. Can’t explain why. Maybe all these accidental leg brushes have made me bold, eroding the normal personal boundaries that exist between virtual strangers, or maybe I’m just too exhausted to keep fighting all the time.
