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Cannon’s door is shut when I reach our rooms. A little urging from him and I was able to talk to Mother in a way I never have before. I reached a new level in my relationship with her, and I wouldn’t have had the guts to do it without a shirtless, brooding private detective telling me off.
What is it about him?
Seeing him with his shirt off scrambled my brains but left me with a sense of déjà vu. His hair’s shaggy, but that intense look with the scar cutting through his lip leaves me with the impression that I’ve seen him before. Funny how I forgot when I thoroughly tried to ignore him, but now that he’s around, I see him beyond the unkempt look, and the feeling returns.
He’s older than me. No one’s told me his real age, but I’d guess he’s close to Jacobi’s age, maybe a little older. The only older man I’ve dealt with is Roman. Where would I know Cannon from?
His door swings open and he walks out, stopping abruptly. Crap. I’ve been standing in front of my door, staring at his.
“Is something wrong?” The look he gives me borders on concern. I expected annoyance. Has he ever acted annoyed with me? He was upset when I questioned his ability to be my bodyguard. The lack of annoyance sets him apart from the other men in my life.
I’m in danger of staring at him instead of the door. “No. I had a good talk with Mother.” I can’t let the subject go. I asked him something similar when I first met him, and he shut me down. But I ask again. “Have you ever been on TV?”
Alarm flashes in his eyes before he shutters them. Back to brooding Cannon. “Maybe I’ve been in the background of a news segment. Unlike most people in LA, I don’t crave the attention.”
I make a noncommittal noise. Was that a nonanswer? I believe he doesn’t crave attention. He’s hanging around LA, but he doesn’t act like a celebrity. Former celebrity?
I step closer to him and feather my fingertips over the scar on his lip. How do I know this man? My brain is locked tight and focused on his warm skin under mine.
His strong grip surrounds my wrist. Shock chokes my gasp. I was touching him. Downright feeling up his mouth. What got into me? He has the right to fling my arm away, but he doesn’t. He strokes the side of my wrist with his thumb.
“Leave it alone, swan.” He’s still holding on to me when he says, “Are you ready to go?”
“I have to grab my things.” My words came out breathy—from the shock. Definitely not from the way he’s holding my arm.
“I’ll be waiting outside.” He lets go and walks around me until I’m left staring at my door.
Leave it alone, swan. He didn’t tell me I’m wrong. Have we met before? When I was little? I can’t figure it out. All I know is that the man I’m trusting with my life is hiding something. And his nickname has grown on me.
