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Now I’m betting I’ll be lucky if she even looks at me.

The irony is almost funny.

She thinks her theatre company hired Sigma as just regular protocol.

They didn’t.

It’s more complicated than that.

Two days ago the Broadway production manager called Sigma after a series of threats started coming in about Amanda’s appearance at some billionaire’s, a Mr. Carter’s, estate.

Her name.

Her travel schedule.

The catalog she’d be performing.

Details that shouldn’t have been public.

Her company wasn’t taking chances.

They requested a protection detail.

I volunteered.

Which was a mistake.

But the second I saw her name in the report there was no way in hell I was letting anyone else take the job.

Carter fought it, of course.

Hollywood billionaires don’t like being told what to do.

Especially not when they’re throwing an “exclusive private performance.”

But Amanda’s management made it clear.

No security.

No Amanda.

So here I am.

Watching the woman I never stopped loving pretend I don’t exist.

Debra is on the phone now. She could be speaking in tongues for how fast she’s talking and honestly, I don’t give a single shit what that woman has to say.

My attention is on Amanda alone.

Behind me, she shifts.

“You going to keep staring out the windshield all weekend,” she says coolly, “or do bodyguards actually talk to the people they’re assigned to?”

I glance over my shoulder.

She’s watching me.

Arms crossed.