Page 5 of The Bodyguard and His Bunny

“And?”

I clear my throat. “And I have no idea. We all just have to keep taking shifts to clean the cages and feed them until I come up with something better.”

I know what I have to do. I have to dip into my trust fund and buy property. A farm or a house in the country. It’s just…wow, I’ve never had that much responsibility before. And maybe I should have thought about that before falling in love with the idea of rescuing rabbits.

“Well, we’d better come up with a plan soon. We’re gonna get caught. The smell alone…that place isn’t airtight, you know.”

“I know! That’s why I chose it. They have to be able to breathe.”

The secret hiding place for the rabbits is also probably rat-infested, but I can’t think about that now.

“That place doesn’t have the space for all the cages we’re going to need,” she urges.

The hiding place doesn’t have enough cages, period, judging by how those critters love to reproduce. I guess there’s a reason they call it “humping like bunnies.”

“I know, I know. I’ll get over there today and try to figure something out. Maybe I’ll take all the females to my place and….”

She snorts. “We need a veterinarian, farmer, or someone to help us tell the difference. Because our track record of identifying rabbit genitalia is still somehow not effective birth control.”

Dahlia’s right.

“Something will work out. It simply has to, because…well, because I say so.”

“You’re an eternal optimist. Go to work. And think about calling the cops if that guy gets near you. If you want me to knee him in the groin, just say the word.”

We say our goodbyes, and I hang up the phone, continuing to watch the guy on the street watching the doorway of my building. The funniest thing is, he thinks I haven’t noticed him.

Oh, but I’ve noticed him. What I haven’t said to Dahlia is the guy is fine. Really, really fine. And not my type at all.

As I watch, an older woman pushing a cart full of her belongings rolls up to him. I see her all the time, headed to the Community Center for assistance. Every morning since the guy has been following me, she stops to talk to him. No surprise because he stands out like a sore thumb in his pressed suit and sexy aviator sunglasses. He talks to her deferentially, respectfully, in a way that gives off a military vibe.

That’s the part that I don’t get. If he was an average weirdo, he wouldn’t be chatting up the neighborhood. What does a normal, well-adjusted guy want with me?

Unless…unless Uncle Logan has asked the Capitol police to keep an eye on me.

Oh no. That’s gotta be it.

I mean, look at him. He oozes control freak.

Crap. So I’ve got cops on my ass now. Super. Now I’m really fucked when it comes to the bunnies.

Still, I smile when the guy reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out some bills and what looks like a protein bar, and hands them to the woman with the cart. He lets her squeeze his hand for a long time. She smiles, and his smile back at her is genuine.

Oh no, you don’t. Don’t you dare swoon, Sara.

He’s a pawn of the establishment, and you hate the establishment, remember?

And speaking of the establishment: Uncle Logan Potter, Speaker of the House, needs to be stopped.

Me: Uncle Logan, did you send a Boy Scout to watch my apartment?

Uncle L.P.: No.

Me: So if I tell you I pepper sprayed him, and he’s sitting on the curb muttering about suing you and going to the Washington Post, what would you do?

L.P.: Really, Sara?

I snap a picture and send it to him.

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