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“Oh my gosh. They’re strippers, aren’t they? It’s not even my birthday yet—not for two more weeks. Did my friend, Sarah, arrange this? Oh my god. It’s so freaking elaborate. You really got me. Whew. For a minute there, I thought this was a no-joke situation.”
“They’re certainly not strippers, Ms. Bradshaw. And this is very serious. They’re bodyguards, Ms. Bradshaw, and I don’t doubt that between them they know seventy-four ways to kill a man with their bare hands,” Monty said, clearly fanboying the three newcomers himself.
But wait, back up.
What is going on?
Bodyguards?
“Why on earth would I need bodyguards? Why would I need protection? And from who?”
Wait. Bodyguards?
“Oh my god, they’re going to kill me, aren’t they?” She couldn’t hide the sheer panic in her voice.
Oh crap. Oh shit. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind, but now she was certain she was just a dead woman walking on borrowed time. Oh fuck. What was she going to do? Skip the country? Hide in some dilapidated abandoned building until it was safe to come out. When she turned sixty, maybe?
Oh, god, there was no other way. She was going to die and so young, too.
“Ms. Bradshaw, please pay attention. No one is trying to kill you, although I do find that hard to believe,” the solicitor muttered under his breath.
“Who’s they?”
Rayne swung her attention back onto them as the guy in the middle asked. She momentarily forgot to breathe because they were so damn good-looking, then had to shake herself free from the mesmerizing hold they had on her.
She had seriously gone off the deep end there. She was small fry. Of course, she wasn’t going to die. She’d probably get a black eye from it, or maybe two black eyes. But they weren’t going to off her. Right? No, of course not. She had just panicked at the worst time.
“Who’s they?” Another one of them asked again, injecting more authority into his voice.
“Duh. The boogeyman, obviously,” she said saucily, desperate to cover up her mini meltdown. There was no way she was going to air her rather sticky situation in front of three men who looked like that. But that uncharacteristic deduction of herself made her frown.
She was made of unsexiness, mayhem, and mistakes, not sex, sugar, and spice, and she owned her disastrous life because someone had to live it. Also, if she tried to hide out of embarrassment, she would never ever leave her apartment because awkward situations followed her everywhere. Hence, she just owned each and every one of them out loud. So, what changed now?
Okay, no. Now was not the time to start psychoanalyzing herself. All she knew was that she didn’t want them to know about the mess she had gotten herself into for reasons yet unknown.
“Okay, you do know that for this to be a joke or a prank, there has to be a punchline, right? Please, just tell me the punchline. I’ll laugh. You’ll laugh. We’ll all laugh, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Ms. Bradshaw, for the countless time, this is not a joke. You aren’t in any danger; that is not the reason your great-aunt, in whatever capacity she acted, left you three bodyguards in her will. Her reasons will, however, become known in due course. At the end of the thirty-day period, that is, or maybe sooner. Until then, Beckett King, Aston Lane, and Keaton Reed will be yours for the duration of a month.”
Fine, Monty still wanted to play; well, he could play by himself.
“If there’s no punchline, then I’m leaving.”
Picking up her handbag from the seat she had occupied before, Rayne slung it over her shoulder and then headed for the door.
This was beyond nuts, and she knew enough about every level of nuts. It was the soundtrack of her life, after all.
Except on her way out, she had to pass three concrete-like body barriers and nearly stumbled backward in sheer shock as the scent of their cologne enveloped her senses. The distinct merger of invigorating orange, lemongrass, and red grapefruit settled all around her, leaving an indelible impression on her skin like a tattoo that seemed to penetrate her soul. It was as if she could pick out each molecule of their fragrance and roll it between her fingers before she took a dainty breath of their fragrance. And they had turned her into a sapping poet—not even a very good one at that.
They smelled nice. So did her favorite blanket when it came out of the wash.
Onward and outward.
But when her faculties continued to collapse one by one when their scent seemed to follow her, she spun around so fast that her ponytail slapped her in the face.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
“Allow me to introduce you,” Monty started, coming around from his desk and approaching them. “Ms. Bradshaw, this is Beckett King,” he said, gesturing to the man with the astounding gray eyes, so enigmatic that not a flicker of emotion passed over his gaze. “This is Aston Lane, and that is Keaton Reed.” He gestured to stormy blue-eyed Aston Lane and green-eyed Keaton Reed.
