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I retreat to my bedroom and sink to the edge of my bed. I know myself too well. Sharing such close quarters with him, with that rugged jawline and those kind eyes that see right through me, is like playing with fire. Especially after we’ve been intimate, I know what I’m missing.
Having Dylan here full-time will be a temptation I'm not sure I can resist. But I also feel safer with him close, and there's no denying I enjoy his company, as stern as he can be. This arrangement may give me a chance to get to know the real Dylan behind the stoic bodyguard facade.
I could get used to having him around, and if I do, what happens when all this is over? How will I let him go?
My pulse quickens, thinking about Dylan sleeping just outside my bedroom door. Feelings I can't acknowledge swirl dizzyingly inside me.
His nearness makes it hard to think straight. I press a hand to my heated cheek. What am I getting myself into?
Resisting temptation has never been my strong suit. And Dylan tempts me more than any man I've met.
Chapter8
Gemma
I step into my penthouse,flicking on the lights and kicking off my heels with a sigh of relief. The balls of my feet throb after hours of taste-testing fancy hors d'oeuvres and miniature desserts for the upcoming nuptials.
As usual, Dylan trails behind me, scanning the open-concept living space and kitchen with laser focus.
“How many ways can you stuff salmon and cucumbers onto a cracker?” I say over my shoulder as I make my way to the kitchen. “Don't get me wrong, the food was incredible, but did we need to try fifteen versions of the same canapé?”
Dylan doesn't answer; he is preoccupied with his security checklist. I smile affectionately at his single-minded dedication.
I watch Dylan methodically check the locks on my floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the mechanisms an extra turn for good measure.
Part of me resents having my personal space invaded like this night after night. But I'm grateful for Dylan's tireless vigilance because it comes from a place of genuine care.
Like when he insisted on tasting my coffee this morning in case someone tampered with it. Or how he casually placed himself between me and a stranger who got too close on the sidewalk. His focus never wavers.
I sink onto the plush sofa, kicking off my heels with a sigh of relief. My eyes follow Dylan's muscular frame as he finishes his sweep for listening devices.
I can't deny he's hot as hell. Ruggedly handsome, with his tattooed arms and untamed masculinity. Having him here, invading my space, is tempting in ways I shouldn't consider. Despite my initial protests about Dylan, his stoic presence is comforting.
But Dylan is a constant reminder of the passion and desire I crave—something my marriage of convenience could never provide. And with the wedding looming ever closer, I grow increasingly uneasy.
Why should I settle? I want it all—passion, connection, chemistry. And I want it with my Knight.
Dylan approaches, his inspection complete. “All clear,” he confirms in his deep voice. I force a smile, pushing away my conflicted feelings. Dylan resumes his watch near the window.
I leave him to his work and steal into my bedroom. I wave off the textbooks, my mind churning with more pressing priorities than studying.
Instead, I grab my laptop and access the newest self-defense tutorial video. Learning to protect myself is a priority over memorizing facts from some dusty old textbook.
I widen my stance and clench my fists, mirroring the instructor on the screen. I tentatively punch into the air, following the instructions in the video.
I'm completely absorbed in the self-defense video, mimicking the instructor's punches and kicks when my phone suddenly slips. It smacks against the hardwood floor with a resounding crack.
“Shit,” I mutter, quickly snatching it up. I hope Dylan didn't hear that thud. I freeze, listening intently at the closed bedroom door. After a few heartbeats of silence, I let out a quiet sigh of relief.
I restart the video, striking out at the air, working up a sweat as I push through the burning in my arms. I need to be strong enough to defend myself, whether Dylan is here to protect me. The discomfort is worth it if I can gain the skills to keep myself safe.
I lunge forward, throwing a forceful punch. Pivoting on my heel, I follow with a swift roundhouse kick. As I spin, my foot accidentally kicks the bedside lamp. It wobbles for a split second before shattering.
I hiss a curse through gritted teeth—no chance Dylan didn't hear that crash. My pulse quickens as I wait for the inevitable knock on the door.
Three brisk knocks ring out. “Gemma? You alright?”
I shove the broken lamp under the bed as the door swings open. Dylan's eyes dart to my laptop screen, where a YouTube self-defense tutorial is paused.
