She groans softly beside me.
“Okay, okay. I get it.” A small laugh escapes her. “You read my file.”
One corner of my lips pulls slightly.I’ve memorized her file.
“That doesn’t mean youactuallyknow me,” she adds.
I hold my breath for a second, debating whether or not I should continue. Because the truth is, Iambeginning toactuallyknow her. More than I should, and far more than is safe.
“You put on a brave face because you’ve had to for a really long time,” I share quietly, and her teasing smile falters. “But in reality, you’re worried people won’t like you for who you are.”
My words land harder than I intended, her breath catching and her shoulders tensing. “Ouch,” she mutters weakly, pressing a hand dramatically against her chest. But theoverly dramatic feigned response doesn’t quite hide the truth underneath it: that I’m right.
I’ve watched her enough now to see the pattern: the sarcasm, the performance, and the way she talks first, so nobody else gets the chance to define her before she can control the room. And most notably, the way she acts out preemptively in an attempt to give herself the semblance of control.
“You shouldn’t, though,” I add before I can stop myself.
She blinks up at me slowly. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Worry.” The lone word falls from my tongue as we reach the patio doors. The second it leaves my mouth, I know I’ve said too much.
Mackenzi slows beside me, not completely stopping, but enough that the shift registers. Her eyes search my face with an intensity that pulls tight beneath my ribs, like she’s trying to figure out whether I actually meant it or if this is just another carefully measured response from the man assigned to keep her safe.
The problem is, I did mean it. The low sunlight catches against her hair as the breeze lifts a few strands across her cheek, and I fight the urge to tuck the strays behind her ear. With my hands shoved firmly in my pockets, I stare down at her. She looks softer outside the house, and it might honestly be more dangerous than when she’s mouthing off. Because when Mackenzi drops the attitude for even half a second, it becomes painfully easy to see what’s underneath.
Distance, Damon. You need distance.
After taking my hand from my pocket, I reach past her to pull open one of the heavy patio doors, my arm brushing lightly against her shoulder in the process. The contact is brief and accidental, but it’s electric. She glances up at me again as we step inside, her expression quieter now.
“What?” I ask finally, rougher than intended.
“Nothing.” I can see the lie on the tip of her tongue, unspoken words I am certain will unravel my restraint more than her attitude ever could.
The formal dining room glows beneath soft chandelier light; the white glow reflecting across crystal glasses and polished silverware, while the staff quietly move in and out with plates none of us asked for but somehow appear anyway. Outside the towering windows, the embassy grounds disappear into deepening twilight, security lights flickering on one by one along the perimeter.
My father sits at the head of the table, scrolling through something on his phone, distracted, between bites of food, barely participating in the conversation around him.
Hawk and Gunnar argue quietly about security protocol on the west side of the compound, while Jagger occasionally throws in commentary specifically designed to irritate them both. Damon sits three seats away from me in a black button-down, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing tattooed skin and a heavy watch glinting beneath the dining room lights.
I can feel his eyes on me constantly. Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that dinner feels unbearably intimate for this being a room full of people.
Every time I glance up, his attention is already there waiting for me. His eyes are steadily tracking my every movement. But this isn’t just about protection, not after this afternoon.
My stomach twists into knots so tight that it makes eating difficult.
Because this is insane.
Actually insane.
Damon looks like the kind of men who women write entire novels about. He’s tall, broad, and unrealistically attractive in a dangerous, hypermasculine way that makes functioning difficult. If that weren’t enough, he’s controlled, older, and—I can only imagine—far more experienced than I am. He looks like the kind of man who has women throwing themselves at him without needing to try.
Meanwhile, I’m…me. I’m curvy, and too soft in places I wish I wasn’t. I’m awkward and inexperienced. The extent of my sexual prowess ends at being shirtless with Gabe. A little praise over French toast from a hot, older man nearly caused me to self-combust and has currently created a mini-spiral while my father is only a few feet from me.
I stab aggressively at a roasted potato while trying very hard not to look at Damon again. Only, I can’t help myself. As much as I try to ignore him, I am aware of him with everysingle bite I take. I can practically hear him whispering in my ear with each forkful.
Good girl.
Heat washes up my neck and down to my core.
