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“Ten minutes.”
“No. I have work to do, and then my son comes home at six, and I have to get him bathed and into bed, and there won’t—”
He interrupted her again. “What’s his name?”
“Henry.”
“What time does Hank go to bed?”
“Henry,” she repeated. Nowhere close to smiling. “Seven thirty.”
“I’ll stop by here at seven forty-five. In the meantime, I’m going to get a team on your driveway so you can work without worrying about strangers with cameras messing up your flowers. Which are very nice, by the way.”
That last bit of flattery did the trick—she finally smiled. Almost. At least, she stopped scowling. She looked good when she wasn’t scowling.
But then she said, “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
What was it, the third time she’d told him that? At least this time she didn’t sound quite so much like she’d gladly put him through a wood chipper.
“Good thing I’m not a bodyguard.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “I don’t want a car in my driveway. Put one car in the cul-de-sac if you have to. It can do double duty, and I won’t have to look at it all day. And no patrols. I don’t need strange men peering in my windows.”
A car in the cul-de-sac wouldn’t be enough by a long shot. It was a starting point, though. He could build on it.
At the moment, he didn’t have any leverage to use on her. If she honestly didn’t want his help, he couldn’t force her to take it. He needed to get to know her better so he could figure out what was going to work, and he couldn’t do that while she was standing shoeless in her yard, her heart still pumping fight-or-flight chemicals through her bloodstream, her mind on the work he was keeping her from doing.
“All right.” He started walking backward, careful not to step on any of her plants. “I’ll see you tonight, Ellen Callahan.”
“I don’t want to see you tonight,” she said. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“Maybe I’ll just drop by for that beer you owe me.”
“I only have wine.”
“I like wine.”
“Uninvited guests are the bane of my existence.”
But her mouth softened when she said it, and she held his gaze for a few beats.
“Seven forty-five.” He gave her a little salute and spun on his heel, already thinking about what he was going to ask Carly about her. Maybe they were friends. Carly was friends with everybody.
He would figure out how to fix this. He had to, because failure was not an option.
Chapter Three
“What were you thinking?”
On the digital screen of Ellen’s iPad, Jamie yawned and wiped one hand over his face. It was only six a.m. in L.A. She’d woken him up—a petty victory. In exchange for siccing Caleb Clark on her, he deserved whatever transcontinental forms of punishment she could inflict.
“What was I thinking about what?” he asked.
“The bodyguard. You know how I feel about security.”
Jamie frowned, and then his face disappeared, and she got random, jerky views of wall, ceiling, and a blurry blue blob that was probably his comforter. He came back into view, headboard behind him. Sitting up now. “I know how you feel about everything.”
“So what made you think this was a good idea?”
