Page 11 of Under His Guard

Dom grumbles, saying something to get her situated, and then focuses back on me.

“I will not. She’s lying down. I’m not about to risk the baby.”

My heart skips, and I remember the good news.

Fuck, I didn’t want to stress her. Not Chloe.

“Sorry, Dom. I just thought you should know. And the bit about them threatening the surgeon who lost the guy. I heard you say you’ll tell Cam. Just…please do. Okay?”

I think even Dom can hear the concern in my voice because he sighs heavily, and I can practically see him clenching his jaw like he does.

“Threatening a surgeon now? Fucking hell. I will. I’ll see if Cam can tell the hospital or something.” That sigh of his echoes. “Look, I know you care about Chloe, too, so thanks.”

It’s true. We’ve formed an unlikely friendship, and I’d be beyond pissed if anything happened to her or the baby, particularly if it was my fault.

Like most trouble is.

“All right, sap. Go tend to the preggers. Talk later.”

I don’t wait for him to answer, hanging up the call just in time to pull into my garage.

The security guard at the front waves me in, and I drive to my spot near the elevators.

My building is far from the tallest in town, but I love the view of the sparse lights found in our somber little port town.

Sliding out and locking up the car, the light chirping of the auto lock echoing in the mostly empty garage, I walk to the elevators and choose the top floor.

Home sweet home.

At the twelfth floor, I exit, the doors sliding open to a short hallway with a singular door—mine.

Once I’m inside, I drop my keys on the table by the entrance and go straight for the small bar I have tucked into the corner by my massive window.

It’s quick work to pour myself a few fingers of scotch, and I sigh a little as the delicious burn flows down my throat.

I’m tempted to have the drink outside, but rain immediately starts up once I open the door, and I pull myself back in.

“Okay, never mind.”

I have hours to kill and a sore fucking side, so I guess it’s movie time.

Flicking on the boob tube, I go for something heavy on those very boobs and light on the plot.

“Wild Things. Perfect.”

Sitting down on the couch is harder than normal, and I roll my eyes at the annoying pain licking through my ribs as I try to make myself comfortable.

I know I have to clean the thing, but I’m giving it until at least after the movie before I deal with it.

Pressing my hand to the injury to ease some of the ache, I think about the woman’s hands that helped sew me up.

Clara. Fucking hell.

She is way too attractive for her own good, and she doesn’t even know it. She’s such a slight, little thing—her barely-there curves not something I’d usually go for.

Still, Clara is stunning, all olive skin and green eyes. I have to imagine she has Eastern Hemisphere ancestry in there, but I’m unsure where.

I return my attention back to the movie, and I allow myself to enjoy the ridiculous swimming pool scene before my mind is right back to Clara.

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