“Nothing,” Tristan says.
“Unwanted pursuit,” I tell her. “Three people. One pap. They got photos. Videos maybe.”
Nour grimaces. “They follow you?”
“No.” I shake my head. I kept an eye on the cars behind us while Tristan drove.
“Gio will check the perimeter.”
“I’ll help.”
Nour shakes her head. She folds her arms over her chest. “Gio is on it. You’re off tonight, Katie. You might be the boss, but you need breaks.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
She nods and starts for the security center.
“Come on,” Tristan says, starting for the path.
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going to go check your house for vulnerabilities and then go to bed early so I can get up early because I want doubles on shift and—”
“For fuck’s sake, Bailey.” He whirls but keeps walking backward on the path. I wait for him to fall, like I do every time. The paving stones are cool against my feet. “I’m not in danger, okay? You need to loosen up.”
I clamp my lips shut and glare at him.
He raises a single brow, which is incredibly irritating, because I’ve never been able to master that ability.
“Follow me.” He drops his guitar on the steps of his house and starts jogging for the ocean. I sigh and follow. The night is warm and breezy, June already promising a sticky July, and I start to break a sweat as our feet slap the grass. Cicadas keep us company as we pass the edge of the formal garden, then the tangle of bushes and low scrub pines that signal the edge of the cliffs. Tristan ducks a branch, and I follow more slowly, picking around the rocks that the moonlight edges in pale light.
We clatter down the steps to the old dock in silence.
Tristan’s hands go to the hem of his shirt. He drops it as we reach the dock. I suck in a hard breath that I hope hedoesn’t hear. I am continually stunned that he looks like this. Broad and lean at the same time, with dimples at the base of his spine.
“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” I hiss.
“Bailey.” He turns, hand on the button of his jeans. The moonlight turns the planes of his chest into peaks and valleys that my fingers itch to explore. “I think you need to lighten the fuck up.”
“Don’t hold back,” I mutter.
“Okay,” he says lightly. “I won’t.” He drops his pants on the dock, then his boxers. I get a peek at the taut curve of his butt before he executes a perfect arcing dive into the ocean. I settle on the edge, feet skimming the water. It’s still cold. Colder than I’m sure he wants, but he’s not complaining. He surfaces, treading water easily, because each of the Prince siblings can swim like a fish, but especially Tristan.
“I see you,” he says.
My feet stop kicking. “What are friends for?”
“Don’t try my own tactics on me,” he growls. “Even off duty, I see how tightly you hold yourself. I see you position yourself between the door and the table when we’re out getting breakfast, and I see you move to the outside of me when we’re walking on the street. So you can better get hit by a car, not me.” His voice is bitter.
I open my mouth, but he shakes his head before he treads closer to the dock. His face is drawn in harsh lines, half lit in the moonlight, half agony in the shadow.
“I’ve had bodyguards before, Katie. None of them do what you do. None of them have been so vigilant.” His words are clipped, his breaths fast. “I hate it.”
“What?” There’s a pit in my stomach.
“You think I want that?” He slicks his hair back in onejerky, sharp movement. “I would rather die than watch you be hurt.”
“Tristan—”
“Don’t.” He bites the word out. “Don’t say it’s your job. It’s not your job. It’s not—fuck, Katie.” His throat is working in hard swallows. I’ve never seen him like this. Raw, none of his sharp edges made more palatable with humor.
