Page 39 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)

Birdie

“Jesus.” I scroll through the student names. “There are so many.”

“Three hundred and forty-seven,” Tristan tells me without looking up from his screen. “That’s just the males. We included female family members of students, too, in case the stalker is using a female relative as a cover.”

“This is going to take forever,” I sigh.

“What’s that?”

Did he not hear me or is he mocking me? He thinks I’m chasing ghosts, drowning in shadows and wasting our time.

He’s certain Butterfly Man is Jacob. My chest tightens because Tristan may not be wrong.

Some part of me knows Jacob doesn’t add up.

Too many coincidences, too much convenient timing.

The footage of the masked man I can’t explain.

At the same time, Tristan is too eager to get Jacob out of the picture. He wants Jacob gone, and it has nothing to do with the stalker and everything to do with the fact that he can’t stand that I like the detective. Would my bodyguard risk my safety because of jealousy?

I open my work in progress and write that down.

“What did you just type?” Tristan asks, and I catch the quick flick of his eyes toward me.

“Notes.”

“You write your notes on suspects in the notepad next to you, but you just typed something.”

I raise a brow at him. “Are you really watching me that closely?”

His mouth tips into that infuriating smirk, but I don’t let him answer before I add, “Careful, Tristan. Pay that much attention to my every move and I might mistake you for my stalker.”

With a scoff, he leans back, cool and composed, like my jab didn’t land at all.

I’m back on the list, scrolling further. Lines of names blur together until I hit a familiar class. Tristan used to be one of them. A student. My student.

My pen hovers over my lips. “What was your last name back then? When you were in my class?”

That gets his full attention. For a heartbeat, something flickers across his face—hesitation, bewilderment and almost blame—but then his expression slides back into neutral, even playful. “You wanna find me in there to cross me out or add me to your list of suspects?”

“Who knows?”

He lets out a short laugh, but there’s tension in it. “That’s reassuring.”

“I’m just curious,” I admit.

“You really don’t remember me at all, do you?”

“Three hundred and forty-seven names, Tristan, and that was eight years ago,” I say, as if that is enough for a good defense.

He puts his laptop aside and leaves his seat. “Well, I was hoping you’d find out on your own. Honestly, it was my intention to tease you about it.”

“But you remembered you were a gentleman and decided to put me out of my misery by simply telling me?” I bat my eyes as cutely and charmingly as possible.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he slouches against my desk and bends forward, close enough for me to fill my nose with his cologne and appreciate the gold flecks in the green of his eyes. “Is that what you want? For me to be a gentleman?”

Oh, he’s going there. Tristan Morra is starting the game he never seems to win. The muscle in his cheek ticks as he leans closer, clearly determined to play it cool.

I rub the pen playfully against my lips and then lick the edge of my bottom lip, deliberately slow, just to see the way his gaze drops there before darting back up like he didn’t mean it.

He did. He always does. It’s almost unfair, but then again, he’s the one who keeps stepping into the ring.

“God, no,” I whisper, “gentlemen are boring.”

“Yeah?” The corner of his mouth twitches. His cologne curls around me, warm and spicy, and I can feel him recalculating, looking for a move that won’t leave him defeated again.

Brandon’s voice cuts into the room. “Sir, your bike just got here.”

Tristan’s shoulders tense as he straightens, the moment dissolving like it’s never happened. He clears his throat and looks toward Brandon. “Thanks. Tell them I’m coming down.”

“Your bike?” I ask.

“It’s a beast. Pretty sure it costs more than my yearly salary,” Brandon says.

I get off my chair. “Have you just bought a new bike, Tristan?”

He shrugs. “Mine broke down in Boston and I had the garage ship it back to the island, but then we came here so…”

What the fuck? “But we’re just stopping by. Are you planning on moving to Florida soon?”

“No, of course not. I’ll have the new bike delivered back to the island as soon as we’re done.”

“From Jacksonville to Vineyard Haven?” Or wherever we’ll be after we get out of this state . “Is that even possible?”

He shrugs again, like having a motorcycle shipped across states is no big deal. “Anything is possible for the right amount of money, not that it’s expensive to ship bikes. It’s like a grand or so, with insurance.”

I stare at him. “You throw a grand or so to ship a bike you don’t even need? Are you in the mafia or something?”

“What? No.” He laughs.

“Just how rich are you?”

“Rich enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He dismisses Brandon and turns back to me, his smirk returning. “What do you want to know? Net worth? Assets? Stock portfolio?”

“I want to know what kind of rich you are.” Blake comes to mind, and the way money has poisoned everything between us.

“My money is legit, Birdie. The military pays well and so does security work. When you risk your life every minute on the job, it’d better make you loaded.”

“Good to know, but that’s not really what I meant.”

“Okay. Well, then I’m the kind of rich that can take care of someone as wealthy as you without ever needing to touch a dime of hers.

The kind that, if you were mine, you wouldn’t have to sell your soul to publishers who control you, kill yourself for meeting deadlines or attend another event you were forced into ever again.

The kind that, if you were mine , you’d be free to be whoever you wanted, do whatever you wanted without a single worry. ”

His eyes beg me not only to understand what he’s offering but to take it. The picture of life he’s painting for us, one I’ve never dared to dream of.

He approaches me, his face softening, yet dead serious. “The kind that, if you were mine , it would be because I loved and wanted you, not because of what you could give me.”

My breath catches in my throat. The way he says it—if you were mine—like it’s not a possibility but an inevitability. If you were mine. Three times in a row, each carries more weight than the one before, a promise he’s made himself and would do anything to keep, no matter the danger or cost.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I whisper, even though part of me—a lonely, desperate part—wants to believe every word.

“I know exactly what I’m saying.” His voice is low, rough. “I’ve known for a long time.”

“Tristan…” I start, but my voice comes out breathless.

He glances toward the laptop with its endless list of names, then back at me. “You’ve been cooped up in here for so long, staring at screens…” He gestures toward the door. “You wanna go for a ride? Get some air? Try the new bike with me?”

“I…” I can’t believe you let me off the hook so easily.

I look at the monitor, at all those names I still need to go through.

God, I’m so tired of being trapped in safe houses and hotels, tired of staring at screens and feeling like I’m drowning in suspects and suspicions.

Then I look at Tristan, at the way he’s watching me like my answer matters more than it should.

“What do you say? Trust me for an hour before you come back and find out, of all three hundred and forty-seven names, mine is your stalker?”

I laugh under my breath. “How can I trust this is not your kidnapping me?”

“I’d be the dumbest kidnapper ever if I chose this city to take you. This is your hometown. You know it better than I do. You’ll know where to escape.”

“Fair point.”

“So? Show me around?”

“Eh, why not?” I say, as if I’m doing him a favor. As if I’m not desperate for that one hour of being free. Freedom, a big part of Tristan’s promise, of the life he’s picturing for us. Am I too naive to allow myself to want that? With someone like him?

A smile slithers its way to my face even though I know the answer is yes. I guess I’m too tired of fighting whatever this thing is between Tristan and me.