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"Finish your proofreadin', lamb."
I leap at the chance to exit the conversation, my mind reeling. For weeks now, I've been trying to convince myself that I'm just a passing curiosity for him and that he'll get bored and move on soon. I've been clinging to that as if it'll spare my heart. But he just stole a big chunk of it anyway.
I haven't given a single inch, and he's already talking about me to the people who matter to him. If I were just a notch on his bedpost, I don't think he'd be doing that. Maybe it's not like that in most places, but in the South, getting families involved is serious.
Yesterday, when Bets raised the possibility that I could break his heart, I almost talked myself out of believing it. But the proof is right here, staring me in the face.
And that's somehow even more terrifying than the possibility of him breaking my heart. I know nothing about love, relationships, or dating. I've avoided all possibilities of them, throwing myself into caring for Gran and Bets so I didn't have time to think about it. So long as they were my priority, I could convince myself that there was no room in my life for anyone else. I didn't have to face reality.
And the reality is this: everything I know about love ends in grief. My dad loved my mom fiercely, right up until she destroyed him and then got them both killed. Gran loved Grandpa madly, right up until he died, leaving her spinning like a top. I run because it's easier than facing the possibility that I might end up facing the same thing. Or, worse, that I might be just as destructive and selfish as my mom.
Thelastthing I want to do is hurt this man. But what if that fatal flaw was encoded in my DNA, passed down from her? It's a terrifying possibility, the one that keeps me up at night.
I have to read through the press release three times before I manage to successfully proof it. My mind keeps bouncing back to the man sitting across from me, patiently waiting for me to finish. But on the third pass, I've given up trying to figure out what the right thing to do is here, and I'm mostly confident I finally got all of Camila's wayward commas. I reluctantly set it beside a paperweight shaped like a hair bow, blowing out a breath.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"You're in danger."
I blink at him. "Excuse me?"
"You're in danger," he says again.
"I'm in danger? What are you talking about?" I narrow my eyes on him. "Did you hit your head or something?"
"No."
"Are you on drugs?"
"Fuck no," he snorts.
"Then you're just plain crazy. I'm not in danger, Zayne."
"You are. Someone hired me to provide security services to you because they have reason to believe you're in danger."
"What? Who hired you?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that information."
I gape at him, incredulous. "You're kidding me right now. Did Camila put you up to this?"
"No. I haven't spoken with Camila about it yet. Her office is my next stop."
"Tell me who hired you." I narrow my eyes on him. "Zayne Carmichael, did you hire yourself to follow me around?"
"No."
I scrutinize his expression, trying to figure out if he's lying to me or not. His level expression doesn't change, though. Either he's telling the truth, or he's impressively good at lying with a straight face.
The only people I know who would even think of hiring him to follow me around are him and Camila. Him because he's crazy and her because she's dying to know what's going on between us.
I'm not sure who that leaves.
My eyes widen. "Holy crap. Did my grandma or aunt talk you into this?"
"No."
"Did you talk them into it? Because I swear to God, I will strangle you if you've got them thinking I'm in danger!"
