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I can hear him moving about, doors opening and closing. Dad warned me about this – Grady will need tosecure the premises, which is Rothwell code for poking his nose everywhere in my home. I made sure there wasn’t any lingerie lying around.
The machine beeps, and I pour two mugs on the kitchen island, waiting for Grady to emerge. As he strides into the room, I pick up both cups, holding one out to him. His eyebrows shoot up as he takes it.
“You don’t have to make me coffee.”
Well, don’t get used to it. I have a reason for this kind gesture.
“I’m buttering you up.”
The mug freezes halfway to Grady’s mouth, and he eyes me warily. “For what?”
“To change your remit.”
The mug drops back to his stomach, his voice hard. “Not happening.”
Uh, yes, happening. My tone is stiff, “I have things I do privately.”
“Like what?”
My cheeks heat up. Ugh, not the best time to think about Jimmy’s head between my thighs.
“I have a private boxing session at my gym five days a week.” And my trainer fucks me. Grady can’t be present forthat.
Relaxing, Grady raises his mug again, taking a sip. “I can handle watching you box.”
I choke on air. “They’reprivate.”
Grady shoots me a skeptical look. “They’re boxing. I can wear workout clothes if you prefer that to a suit. I’m happy to blend in.”
No, he’s missing the point completely! “It’s... whatever. Wear workout clothes.”
Grady nods, sipping his coffee again. My eyes narrow at the gesture.
“Enjoy that. It’s the last one you’re getting made for you.”
His lips twitch, and he salutes me with the mug. “I will savor it, Ms. Rampwood.”
“Thelma,” I grit out between
“Thelma.”
He’s amused right now. Ugh, stupid sexy bodyguard. Amber was so right about them being annoying.
JIMMY
Trey drops onto the barstool beside me, accepting a beer from the bartender and turning to me with raised eyebrows.
“What?” I ask defensively, swallowing a mouthful of beer.
“Nothing,” Trey smirks, eyeing me again. “You seem on edge. You’ve been almost zen recently. What changed?”
I blow out a breath, glaring at the football game on the television. Trust my twin brother to have fucking noticed.
“Of course I’ve been zen. I’ve been getting laid.”
“And you didn’t tell me? I’m hurt,” Trey whines. I flip him off, sighing and resting my arm along the bar as I turn to him. Trey snorts, turning to face me as well.
“So the lack of zen is because you’re not getting laid anymore?” he guesses. Wrong again, brother.
