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“Yes. If they didn’t finish what they planned to, then yes. You’re going to need to be careful and aware when you are alone.”
“I can do that. So what about tonight?” she asked, looking toward her front door.
“Tonight, I am going to stay here.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, but there was no conviction behind her words.
“It’s already settled,” I assured her. “Don’t mind me. I won’t be in your hair. Just do what you would normally do. Try to ignore that I’m even here.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Miranda
Ignore that he was there?
Only a man who didn’t know just how attractive he was could say something like that. But everything about the confident, borderline cocky, way that Brock carried himself said he was very much aware of how hot he was.
Besides, even if he wasn’t so blessed in the looks-department, ignoring his presence would be impossible.
It had been longer than I cared to admit since I’d had a man in my apartment who wasn’t Cam. Hell, there were never any women either.
My apartment was my sanctuary, the place I could shrug off the public persona of Miranda Coulter, and just get to be Randi, a girl who still couldn’t quite believe what she’d accomplished with her life, who still enjoyed a box of store brand mac & cheese—powdered cheese packet included—like she’d eaten for dinner many times in her childhood, even though the adult version of her could have splurged on five-hundred dollars of sushi. Or where I would opt out of my nice, silk pajamas and pick a pair of sweatpants that came from a big box store in horrifically unflattering bright primary colors. Or where I would do my own manicure.
I didn’t like inviting other people into my inner world where parts of the old me still peeked through on occasion.
But, I guess, if someone was going to be privy to that, someone that was being paid to be there was probably the least likely to judge or say anything. Client-employee confidentiality and all of that.
“I have a guest room,” I offered him a while later, after the food was mostly eaten, the dishes in the dishwasher, and the wine bottle finished. Mostly by me.
I could feel it shimmering in my veins, making me feel light and sparkly, but without the sluttiness that came with hard liquor for me.
“I saw that,” he said, reminding me that he’d been all up in my personal space when I wasn’t around to watch him.
He’d seen the cheap boxed mac & cheese. And the sweats. Hell, he probably knew about my collection of battery-operated devices in the bottom drawer of my nightstand, and even drawn conclusions to how long it had been since I’d known the touch of a real, flesh-and-blood man, since I kept a damn bulk-sized pack of batteries in that drawer as well.
“I’d rather stay on the couch,” he added when I said nothing. “Closer to the door if there is trouble.”
“And if there’s trouble?” I asked, stomach clenching a bit. And, I swear, as illogical as it was, I swear the damn cut on my arm burned too.
“You lock your bedroom door, go into your bathroom, lock that door as well, then climb into that massive-ass tub of yours.”
“While you…” I prompted.
“Handle it,” he said, and there was something in his eyes, in his tone of voice, that told me he was more than capable of doing just that.
“Do you have a gun?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Should I have a gun?”
“Honey, I can’t answer that question for you,” he said, shaking his head. And I did not get a little flutter at the endearment. It was the wine, damnit. That was all. “Having a gun or not is a personal decision based on a lot of factors. Like your personal feelings on them, your knowledge on how to use and safely store them, and whether or not you think that, in the worst-case scenario, you could actually point one at a fellow human being and pull the trigger, being fully aware that you could remove them from the world.”
Well, that was a little… intense. But fair.
“I once bashed a man’s teeth out with a tire iron when he tried to assault me instead of help me change my tire like he claimed he was doing.”
“Good for you,” he said, giving me a small smile.
