Page 11 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Let me put it this way, I’ve never met a Bryce I liked,” I tell her, leaning against her headboard.
She cocks her head like a dog, and it’s so adorable, I force myself to look down at the floral pattern on her duvet cover. “How many Bryces have you met?”
I count on my fingers. “Two. And a half. One was a toddler mid-tantrum, so it’s hard to judge. But in my limited experience, they are one of two things: arrogant pricks or foot doctors. Unless that’s the characterization you’re going for.”
She clutches her stomach as though she’s holding in a laugh. “Bryce is actually in medical school, so you’re close. If I change it, will you buy a copy if it ever gets published?”
“I may not be your target audience, but I’ll be first in line,” I promise.
She narrows her gaze at me. “Why aren’t you my target audience? Because you’re a dude? Men can read romance, too, you know.”
“No, I just mean, I don’t really read. Haven’t read a book since high school,” I confess. It’s not that I don’t like books writ large. But after years in the military, my attention span is too shot to sit idle and stare at words for long periods of time. “I’m also not really much of a romantic, either.”
“No?”
“I think love probably exists…if you’re lucky enough to find someone to put up with your bullshit for fifty years. But I don’t think it’s for me. Never wanted to settle down and do the whole white-picket-fence-and-two-kids thing.” Unlike my sister, who was desperate to have a family of her own, the family we never had growing up, I’ve always maintained the opposite philosophy. How could I ever be a good husband or parent when I’ve neverseen a functional example of either up close? Not to mention my work schedule and the fact that I’m never home.
“What was her name? The woman who hurt you?” she asks knowingly.
That’s a loaded question. So I start with the easy answer. A cop-out. A fraction of the truth. “Angelica. She said she’d go to the prom with me, so I got her a corsage, borrowed a shitty suit from my friend’s dad. Turns out, she had a whole other date,” I say, only realizing now how long it’s been since I thought about that.
“That’s seriously savage.”
“Right? Guess it was my fault, in the end, trusting someone named Angelica.”
She cackles, mirroring my position, turning to face me. It’s an intimate position, especially for two people who’ve only known each other a couple hours, tried to hook up, and failed. But I don’t feel the urge to turn away and face the ceiling after revealing something personal. This feels comfortable, like I’ve known her for years.
“I went to university with a girl named Angelica,” she tells me. “She could reduce anyone to tears with just her words.”
“That tracks.”
“Can you pass stern judgment on the name Hunter?” I have no idea why she cares about my opinion so much, but it’s intriguing nonetheless.
“Who’s Hunter? Your ex?” I prod.
“You’re very perceptive. How’d you know?”
“Oh, just the complete and total angst in your voice when you said his name.” I bump her shoulder lightly.
“A lot of regret, actually,” she adds.
“I went to elementary school with a Hunter. He used to put his entire mouth on the nozzle at the water fountain, if that tells you anything.”
A laugh rockets out of her. “My Hunter—” She stops herself, grimacing. “Sorry. He’s notmyHunter. Anymore. He’s…Laine’s Hunter now. I guess.”
“Who’s Laine?”
“My best friend. The one who was with me at the bar tonight. Long story.” She waves her words away like the subject isn’t worth talking about. I don’t want to upset her, so I leave it alone.
We sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments before she bolts upright. “I almost forgot. We have cheesecake!” Before I can respond, she scurries off the bed and races into the kitchen, only to return with the cheesecake and two forks.
Three-quarters of the fluffy, cloudlike cake is devoured within fifteen minutes. “God, this is good. Better than sex, I think,” she says through an indecent moan that makes my stomach free-fall.
“You think so?” I ask, shifting my leg to hide her effect on me.
“Definitely.”
“You’re not having very good sex, clearly,” I point out, leaning back against the headboard, my stomach fully satisfied.
