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I’m not sure if that’s why she uses me. Could she be trying to get one taste of the Bachman bedroom before she leaves it behind for another family’s traditions? Or does she just want a little experience in that area before she becomes a wife?
I don’t know.
You’ve been used before by a pretty little rich girl, I remind myself. It ended badly. Very badly. With me locked up in prison for three years of my life.
This is different. She is different. I’m just doing my job. Doing her a favor.
No strings attached.
If Paisley is—using my services—to hide from the pain, how can I be one to judge? It’s giving me something I need, too. That intense need for control, touch, connection?—
I shut myself up before I piss myself off.
I do a little more research. Flipping through outdated articles, I stumble across something in a Portland design magazine that gives me an idea. I pull Lindy back up on messenger to run it by her.
I’m worried I’m keeping her up but she says no, her cat’s being a night owl. I run my idea by her. With a jumble of emojis and exclamations points, she agrees—wholeheartedly—with the plan and tells me to message her back if she needs to cancel the rooms she booked earlier.
It’s not somewhere I would want to go, but I think it will… God. What is happening to me? Last time I was heading up a mission I was crawling through the air duct of a loft apartment in Hoboken, scoping out the layout for possible murder.
I’ve spent the last hour of my life setting up a tour of a town I’ve never heard of. In a climate I’d never care to visit. To drag my entire security entourage around from rundown café to empty storefronts. For a vampire teen romance movie. I spend the next hour quietly talking on the phone.
Resting my elbow on the armrest, I bring my hand to my forehead, burying my shame. I can’t believe I’m going through with this, but I think it will…make our princess very happy. I take a deep breath.
And message Lindy to cancel the first reservation.
Fucking. Marsh. Mallow.
eighteen
Paisley
The quaint white building with its decorative Victorian trim is a private business in St. Helens, Oregon, a law office. I meander through the small building, imagining the walls lined with leatherbound books like the bookstore it portrayed. I’m getting an almost eerie yet romantic vibe as I step outside onto the back deck.
Especially when you know a certain someone is watching from down below.
Or, in my case, Sav.
The name Savage doesn’t suit him, does it? Not really. I stand at the rear of the building, overlooking the river. I glance down at the pavement below. He’s staring up at me, his dark eyes sparkling in the hue of the twinkling white lights that hang over my head.
Always watching.
A little shiver runs through me, thinking of how similar my bodyguard’s ever-present stares are to a jealous vampire’s.
Intense. Dangerous. Lethal. But not savage.
I look away, turning back to the building. Satisfied with my tour, I meet the security guys who are waiting for me on the front porch. “Cute, right?” I tease them as I breeze by.
Trying to stay cool under the steady gaze of twelve handsome men as well as my own personal stalker…it’s a lot.
Humor and a little extra lipstick are getting me through.
We stop by a little Italian place for dinner. Lindy called ahead to have the place closed to the public and opened just for us. It’s shift change so the guys take turns, the day shift eating with us while the night shift is in various spots on the quiet streets that surround us while we eat, then switch.
The employees have pushed a million of their little two-top tables together in the center of the room to make room for our large group of wide-shouldered men.
The tables have been laid with red-and-white checkered cloths and baskets of fresh breadsticks, the scent of garlic in the air. Dishes await us, massive, low white porcelain bowls filled with steaming servings of different types of pasta. Luckily, there aren’t too many gluten intolerants in our family.
We take our seats, me sandwiched between Sav and a large man with a shaved head and a snake tatted on his neck that I’ve not had the pleasure of being formally introduced to yet, and dig in. The men pass bowls around, the tatted guy beside me scooping heaps of each kind on my plate without asking.
