Page 8 of My Shifty Bodyguard

The little seating area sits just past the cluster of shops, tucked beneath a line of big old sycamores that throw dappled shade across the ground. A dozen wooden picnic tables are scattered across the grass, each one painted a different color. Someone’s set out wildflower bouquets in mason jars, and bees hum lazily around them.

Families lounge with cones dripping down their wrists, warriors take breaks with giant bowls of strawberry swirl, and a couple of little girls are having a fierce debate about whose ice cream is melting the fastest. Beyond the tables, the farmland rolls out in gold and green stripes.

It’s peaceful, sunny, and smells faintly of vanilla, warm grass, and whatever the goats are plotting today. Perfect spot for ice cream…and for accidentally imagining your future with a certain overprotective, ridiculously handsome temporary bodyguard.

Of course it’s just my imagination. Murder-man hasn’t given any indication that he’s interested in me in that way…has he?

But in my mind’s eye, I can see us lying in a sun-dappled bed, tangled in soft sheets, his hand drifting lazily over my hip like he owns the whole map of me. He’d murmur something low and rough in my ear, something that makes my toes curl, and I’d pretend I wasn’t absolutely melting for him—because a girl has to have some dignity.

I take a slow lick of my cone, trying to cool my overheated brain, and then I glance up.

He’s watching me.

Not in a casual “oh hey, you’re eating ice cream” way. No. Dax is looking at me with a quiet intensity that makes my nether regions hot. His elbows are braced on the table, forearms flexed, eyes locked on my mouth like I’m the dessert and he’s the one about to melt.

My breath stutters. He’s drinking a glass of water from a glass mug and staring at me, and he doesn’t look away. Not even when someone behind him laughs too loudly, not even when a goat lets out a lengthy, challenging bleat. He’s tuned in to me — intensely, sharply — and suddenly I’d give anything, anything, to know what’s going on behind those dark, stormcloud eyes.

Is he wondering why I can’t stop glancing at his hands? Is he replaying the moment he held me, like I’m replaying it nonstop in my skull? Is he imagining the same sun-dappled bed I am, or is he calculating exit routes and escape plans because he’s stuck babysitting the world’s most accident-prone shifter?

I shift in my seat, heat curling low in my stomach, and he tracks the movement. His gaze dips, then snaps back up to my eyes — fast, but not fast enough for me to miss it. A pulse of wicked delight shoots through me.

“Do you…” I start, but I don’t dare ask him what I want to.

Do you like me at all?

I take a breath. Try again. “Is something wrong?”

He blinks once, slowly. “No.”

But his voice is low. Rough.

And absolutely nothing about his face says “no.”

My heart trips, my pulse skitters, and it suddenly feels like this tiny outdoor ice cream seating area is the center of the universe — him on one side of the table, me on the other, a whole tangle of impossible possibilities stretched tight between us.

A long, awkward silence stretches between us.

“Where’s your ice cream?” I blurt out.

He looks at me in puzzlement. “My ice cream?”

“Yes, what’s your favorite flavor?”

He is staring at me in puzzlement. “I do not eat ice cream. I design my diet for maximum nutrition and efficiency.”

“Efficiency?” I stare at him, appalled. “Food is meant to be enjoyed! It’s one of the greatest pleasures in life.”

“Some people say that,” he agrees cautiously.

“Some people are right! When was the last time you had a ginormous ice cream sundae?”

His silent stare is all the answer I need.

“Never?” I gasp in horror. “I’m reporting your parents for child abuse.”

“I guess I am somewhat unusual in my dietary history.”

I sigh. “And I’m unusual in that I’ve never been anywhere off pack lands without bodyguards and I’ve never left our territory.. We’re just a pair of weirdos, aren’t we?”