Page 8

SINCLAIR

“An entire gallery of pictures and I don’t need any guesses to know which work of art you’re staring at.”

“Huh?” I snap my eyes to where Zoey has appeared beside me.

We’re at an art gallery for Ashton’s latest showing. He draws portraits of both famous people and ones from his imagination. And Zoey. It’s how they met. She became his muse before he even saw her face. It’s such a romantic story that I love to hear her tell every time we have a few drinks.

The gallery is packed with men in tuxedos and women dripping in jewelry, wearing their best gowns. Ashton’s paintings sell for hundreds of thousands. Except the ones of Zoey. He’ll show some of them but refuses to sell a single one.

Zoey’s eyes twinkle as she tilts her head across the busy space.

“Seriously?” I snort, my eyes settling on Denver standing against a far wall, his eyes scanning the space in the over-the-top suspicious way that he does. He’s wearing a tuxedo tonight, instead of his usual black suit. The bow tie sits snuggly against his collar, hugging his broad neck.

“How long have we been friends?” Zoey asks.

“Forever,” I reply.

“Forever.” She hums. “Exactly. So I know when you’re enjoying having a guy at your beck and call, following you around all day. It’s okay, you can admit it.”

Her smile is teasing as I turn to her.

“It’s Denver. I’d rather have a PAP smear every waking hour of my life than have him with me every day.”

Zoey arches her brows, and I sigh in frustration. “He’s just… there. All the time.” My eyes flick back over to where he’s watching me. His dark brows lower over his eyes as we stare at one another.

“I can see that.”

I break Denver’s eye contact and note the smirk on Zoey’s face.

“I don’t like having him follow me around. I told you already.”

“Prove it. Go over there and spend some time with him. If you try and get along with him, maybe he’ll feel less like an intense bodyguard and more like a?—”

“If you say boyfriend, I might scream.”

“I was going to say friend, but…” Zoey shrugs, her eyes sparkling.

I narrow my eyes at her.

“Come on.” She laughs. “He must be bored as hell standing by himself all night.”

“He’s used to it.” I sniff, my gaze traveling back to him. “Ah ha! See!” I nudge Zoey. “He isn’t alone. Someone’s talking to him.”

Zoey follows my gaze to where a woman in a black dress with a plunging neckline has commanded Denver’s attention. Someone walks past them, making her lose her balance. She wobbles and reaches out, placing her palm over Denver’s chest to steady herself.

“Oh, yeah,” Zoey says, watching as Denver helps her gain her balance, then smoothly removes her hand from his chest. “What’s his story, anyway?”

“He left the SEALs before he came to work for my father. Said he wanted to stay near New York because he has family nearby, but he never takes a day off, so I don’t know when he sees them.”

The woman he’s with tilts her head back, laughing. She’s totally faking it and flirting with him. Denver isn’t funny and he doesn’t make jokes.

“This is the Upper East Side, Princess, not the Bronx.”

Okay, maybe he does. But they’re rarer than a solar eclipse.

“I caught him on his phone earlier when he was waiting for me to get ready. He was smiling. Weird, right? He never smiles at anything,” I whisper, leaning closer to Zoey.

She mirrors my posture, whispering, “You sure notice a lot of things about the bodyguard you claim not to like.”

“Do not.” I pout.

“You’ve told me he has no personality at least ten times in the past.”

I shrug. “I’m just making the best of a bad situation. If we’re stuck together then it’d be nice to know something about him. He’s worked for Dad for over six years and the most personal thing I know is his last name.”

“And that he likes red velvet cake.”

“What?” I frown.

“The birthday cake you got for him years ago?”

I almost choke on my laugh. “Please. He got that cake because I wanted one to celebrate my first shoot as the face of the family business. Dad insisted I be eighteen before I worked for Beaufort Diamonds. It looked less self-indulgent if I wrote Denver’s name on it and claimed it was for him.

The fact he was working with us on his birthday, and it was the same day as the photoshoot was a stroke of divine intervention. ”

“Uh-huh.” Zoey smiles.

I fold my arms. “That’s all it was. Don’t mistake my craving for cake as any kind of fondness for Denver.” His name is drawn out from my lips as the woman tucks a piece of folded paper into his jacket pocket and pats it.

“You know what? I could do with a drink. Denver can get me one. It’ll make him feel useful.”

“You’ll walk past the bar to get to him,” Zoey points out.

I wave her comment away as I head across the room, making a beeline for Denver as the woman finally wanders away.

“Who was that?” I snap.

“She said her name was Tiffany,” he answers, his green gaze boring into mine as I stop directly in front of him and tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.

I wrinkle my nose as a new name for her springs to mind. Trampy Tiffany.

“What did she want?”

“Someone to accompany her to the ballet.”

“You’re not a hired escort service, did you tell her that?” I splutter. “You’re my bodyguard. God, the nerve of some people.” I cast my eyes in the direction she wandered off in, staring daggers at her back as I spot her in the crowd.

“She wasn’t suggesting she pay me.”

I snap my eyes back to Denver’s face. “She wanted a date?”

His lips thin, and he delivers a firm nod.

“But you don’t date. We agreed.”

“We did,” he replies, his eyes never leaving my face. “I won’t date while I’m assigned to you. You’re my priority.”

“Obviously,” I huff, looking around the full room as the back of my neck grows hot.

Trampy Tiffany keeps glancing our way, trying to catch Denver’s eye.

“I won’t date while I’m assigned to you.” There’s no way of knowing how long that could be. I pray as short as possible but… Trampy Tiffany is smiling now, eye-fucking Denver like he’s a piece of prime man-meat.

“I need to make a note of something! Quick!”

Denver pulls out his phone, but I place my hand over his and push it away.

“Not that. A piece of paper or something. I need to actually write it.” I roll my hand in a circle, urging him to hurry. “Today would be super helpful.”

He slips two long fingers into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket and hands me the folded piece of paper.

“Thank you!” I snatch it off him before he can react and catch the attention of a passing waiter who’s collecting empty champagne flutes on a tray.

“Excuse me. Do you have a pen, please?”

“Sorry, Ma’am.” He gives me an apologetic smile.

I shrug, returning his smile with a bright one. “Never mind.” I drop the piece of paper into one of the half-drunk glasses. It soaks up the golden liquid, swelling inside the bottom of the glass. “Oops.”

Denver’s eyes are dark when I turn back to him.

“I forgot what it was I needed to write,” I say breezily. “Oh, that wasn’t important, was it?”

I turn as though I’m about to follow the waiter to get the paper back. A strong hand wraps around my upper arm to stop me, sending the shiver of a memory shooting up my spine.

“You okay?” Green irises flecked with gold. My eyes full of tears. Everyone wearing black. “Are you okay?”

“It wasn’t important.” His deep voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Good.” I glance at his face; his expression is unchanged, giving nothing away. I exhale as his fingers uncurl from my arm. “What do you need to do to get a drink around here?” I ask with a small, forced laugh.

“You’re thirsty?”

“A little,” I reply. My throat is growing scratchier by the second as more buried memories threaten to surface.

Denver moves fast, his hand finding my lower back through my nude silk dress.

He steers us smoothly through the sea of people.

They part for him, the men subtly looking at his muscular frame filling out his tux, the women less subtly checking out every inch of him, smiling up at him like freaky baby dolls with long batting eyelashes.

Zoey catches my eye from across the room where she’s standing wrapped around Ashton’s side as they talk to a group of people who are admiring one of his paintings hanging on the wall. She gives me a wide grin, and I shake my head at her.

“What would you like?” Denver asks as we reach the bar.

The bartender comes immediately when Denver tips his chin at him.

“Champagne, please.”

“Certainly,” the bartender replies before he walks to the other end of the bar and takes a pre-poured flute from a large display of meticulously stacked glasses.

He returns and offers the glass to me.

“She’ll take one from a fresh bottle,” Denver clips.

The bartender falters, then nods at Denver. “Certainly, Sir.”

As he opens a new bottle, I turn to Denver, finding him clenching his jaw. “What was?—?”

“Anyone could have slipped something into one of those glasses. No one’s been watching.”

“You’re right. No one is watching. They’re having fun instead… Except you.”

His jaw clenches tighter. “It’s my job to intercept possible threats to your well-being.”

I want to roll my eyes at how serious he looks as he says the words.

But I don’t. My father and Sullivan have treated me like I’m fragile for the past two years and it’s always annoyed me.

And having Denver assigned to me has only fueled that annoyance further.

But the deep set of his brows, and the genuine concern in his voice is creating a new buzzing sensation inside my stomach. One that’s not completely unpleasant.

The bartender hands me my drink and I thank him.

“What are you having?” I ask Denver.

“I’m good.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t have to dehydrate just because you’re working.” I fix him with a look as he stares at me, the gold flecks in his irises burning.

“Fine.” He signals the bartender. “Water, please.”