Page 6 of Forbidden Confessions, Volume 2 (The Forbidden Volumes #1)

I know how that goes. “I’m sorry to hear that. With bunk beds, I assume they have kids.”

“A girl and a boy, both almost teenagers now, I think.”

That makes the split even sadder. Or maybe just more familiar.

Rand takes my hand and leads me back down the hall. His fingers are calloused and strong, and I can’t help remembering how they gripped my hips during that kiss, holding me against him like he never wanted to let go.

He clears his throat and releases my hand, leaving me beside the sofa. “Let’s make a list of everything we need for now. I’m thinking we’ll be here a couple of days, maybe more.”

Until now, I haven’t given much thought about how long we’ll have to lie low. “You mean until we figure out who shot at me?”

“Or we can discern some other way to keep you safe long-term.”

Now that we’re here and I’m feeling calmer than I have in a few hours, one question pelts my brain. “Why are you doing this? Most bodyguards just get the client out of the dangerous situation and wash their hands.”

“It’s a fair question.” He lets out a breath.

“Two reasons. First, I lost a client early in my career. A businessman on a trip to Mexico. It sucked, and I took a lot of heat for overlooking an angle of his protection. But I learned. Second, that’s where I met Rob, and it means the world to me that he trusted me, of all people, with you.

I know he’s worked for you for a couple of years and I know he’s very fond of you. ”

“He’s a good guy.” And it says a lot that he chose Rand to watch over me.

“How long before the press is in a frenzy that you’re ‘missing’?”

“They probably already are. Check X and TMZ.”

Rand produces his phone, then thumbs and scrolls and scans the screen. He curses. “That didn’t take long.”

“It never does. Being famous is a bit like living in a fishbowl. Everything you do runs a risk of being highly visible, and everyone thinks they have the right to know every aspect of your life.”

“I can’t imagine.” He shakes his head. “We’ll figure this out and get you where you should be as soon as possible, okay?”

He’s sweet for trying to reassure me, but… “I don’t need you to sugarcoat this. I know keeping me safe won’t be easy, especially since I don’t have any idea who wants me dead.”

“Let’s focus first on setting up here.” He looks me up and down with a wry smile. “You look great in my shirt, but I’m probably going to need it back since it’s my only one. And I’m assuming you want something more your size.”

“That might be nice.”

“I’ll see what I can do. For now, peek in the closet in the back bedroom. Joe’s daughter probably keeps some clothes here. You’re a little thing. Something might fit.”

“Sure.”

“Take a shower if you’d like. I’ll make a grocery list.” He pauses and pulls at the back of his neck. “Um…you cook?”

“Love to when I get the chance. You don’t?”

“I suck at it.”

Honestly, I can’t imagine this man being lousy at anything. He just seems so all-around capable. But his grousing makes me smile. “You won’t starve with me. And if you’re nice, I’ll even show you a thing or two.”

“I’d like that. I could repay the favor by showing you a thing or two.”

Does he mean that as suggestively as it sounds?

“What kind of things?”

“Self-defense. Marksmanship.” He shrugs. “Whatever you need.”

Great sex?

At the thought, my cheeks turn hot. “I’d like that. Thanks. Um…I’m going to get clean now.”

“I’ll order groceries. Anything you’re allergic to? Anything you really hate?”

“Beets and pickles. I’ll eat about anything else.”

“You don’t have a special celebrity diet? You’re not a raw vegan? Or a fruitarian?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m a singer, not a model. Besides, I grew up in Texas, so I love a good barbecued side of cow. Do you actually know a fruitarian?”

“I dated one for about ten minutes.”

I hate the instant pinprick of jealousy. Of course Rand has had a love life. I’ve had one, too. But hearing about his bothers me more than it should. “Why did you break up?”

He gives me a wry grin. “Because she didn’t like barbecued cow.”

I tsk at him, then head to the back of the house. My search through the kids’ closet doesn’t net much. I grab a few stretchy things I hope will fit, then hustle back to the master bath, passing Rand along the way, who’s taking stock of the refrigerator.

Once I’m alone, I go through the motions: grab a towel, wriggle out of everything I’m wearing, take down my hair, rip off the false lashes, then wait for the hot spray.

Lather, rinse, and repeat. But every time I close my eyes, I hear gunshots and screaming, I see people scattering—and I can’t escape the horror that someone was aiming for me.

When I was with Rand a few short minutes ago in the kitchen, I felt fine. Safe. We were even joking. Now that I’m alone, the terror of the day catches up with me. I blow out a breath and try to calm myself, but there’s no denying the ball of anxiety tightening my belly.

Keeping myself busy helps, so I scrub my body until I’m almost raw. Then I squeeze out a bit of honey-scented shampoo and suds up. I’m grateful I spied a halfway decent facial cleanser in the medicine cabinet, along with a basic conditioner in the shower caddy.

I’m still fighting tears during my final rinse, but I have to stop. I’ve got to be strong. And I need to figure out who wants me dead. Crying does none of that.

Finally, I climb out of the shower, wrap my hair in a towel, and reach for the clothes. They fit…but they’re like a second skin.

As soon as I’m dressed, I look in the mirror—and my eyes nearly bulge from my head.

The white tank is two sizes too small. Its hem flirts with my navel and flashes a wide strip of my abdomen.

Without a bra, the thin shirt is almost pointless.

I might as well be naked because my nipples are completely visible.

Shit.

The shorts aren’t much better. They’re black and hip-hugging, but they’re so brief they settle into the groove at the top of my inner thigh and expose the bottom curve of my backside. Even standing in place, the tight spandex creeps between my cheeks and crawls up my vajayjay.

I can’t go out dressed like this…but I can’t go out naked, either.

And right now, those are my only two options.

Shaking out my wet hair from the towel wrapped around it, I finger-comb the pale mass as best I can, then quickly braid it. After a last look in the mirror, I toss the braid behind my shoulder and sigh.

Yes, I’ve had costumes almost as revealing as this, and Rand is just an audience of one. Despite our steamy, spine-melting kiss—a product of the dangerous moment?—I don’t have any real indication that he’s interested. Yes, he was hard, but maybe that had more to do with adrenaline than me.

And the longer I stand here and dither, the sillier I feel.

I pause with my hand on the doorknob, suddenly nervous about facing Rand again. Everything feels different after that kiss, even if it meant nothing to him. Even if it was just for show.

Finally, I tug open the door and pad down the hall to the kitchen. It takes everything inside me not to cross my arms over my breasts self-consciously. “Hey.”