Page 7 of The Prince and the Bodyguard
But this wasn’t a different time or place or life. This was my job—the most important job of my career, the one that could set me up for life if I didn’t screw it up. Like every Secret Service agent, my ultimate goal was to protect the president, and doing well on this special assignment could make a big difference.
Eddie wasn’t some guy I’d met at a bar or in a coffee shop. He was a protectee, actual royalty. And even if he hadn’t been my job, he was still so far out of my league, we weren’t even playing in the same universe.
Pretending to be a couple would be a challenge, to put it mildly, now that my bisexuality had reawakened, as if summoned by forces beyond my control. I’d have to work hard to keep myself in check, to not let Eddie get even a whiff of what was going on. It wouldn’t be easy, but I’d been through worse.
Thank baby Jesus Eddie was straight.
3
EDDIE
I woke to the sound of running water and had approximately three seconds of blissful confusion before remembering where I was and who I was.
Not by myself. Not Prince Gregory.
Not in my private dorm at Oxford University.
Not in my four-poster bed in my apartment in London.
No, I was Eddie York, and I was in a narrow university bed in Washington State, and the shower running in the next room belonged to my devastatingly attractive American bodyguard. I wanted to groan with the weight of that realization.
Through the thin walls, the sounds of Bash’s morning routine drifted in. The shower shut off, followed by the opening and closing of what I assumed was the medicine cabinet, then the electric hum of what had to be a razor. He was humming a song, and there was something so domestic about it that my stomach did an uncomfortable flip.
This was my life now. Sharing a bathroom with a man who looked like he was in the running for Sexiest Man Alive, listening to him brush his teeth and wondering if he was the type to walk around bare-chested or if that incredible Southern drawl would sound different first thing in the morning.
Not helpful. Not helpful at all.
I lay in bed longer than was strictly necessary, partly because I was still adjusting to the time difference and partly because I was having what could only be described as an existential crisis about my living situation. When I’d agreed to this arrangement, I’d pictured something much more… professional, like the rather boring security detail I had back home, all proper and stone-faced. A bodyguard who was present but invisible, someone who would blend into the background while I experienced authentic university life.
Instead, I had Bash Puller, who was about as far from invisible as it was possible to be.
The bathroom door opened, and his bare feet padded on the hardwood floor as he walked into the living room. There was a brief moment of silence, then the soft sounds of him getting dressed. What did he wear to bed? Did he wear anything to bed?
Professional boundaries, Gregory. The man is here to protect you, not to feature in your inappropriate fantasies.
By the time I finally worked up the courage to venture out of my room, Bash was sitting at the small dining table in our kitchenette with a cup of coffee and some kind of printed document. He looked up when my door opened, and I was struck again by those warm brown eyes and the way his hair was still slightly damp from his shower.
“Mornin’,” he said, and his voice was indeed different first thing in the morning—rougher, with his accent more pronounced. “Sleep okay?”
“Yes, thank you,” I managed, though in truth, I’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling and wondering how I was going to survive a year of this. “You’re up early.”
He shrugged, closing his textbook. “Old habits. Military training doesn’t really leave your system.”
Right. Military training. Which meant he was accustomed to efficiency and routine, while even at Oxford, I had struggled with getting up on time and not being late for my classes. The punctuality gene, a trait so revered among my ancestors, had sadly skipped me.
Which brought me to my first crisis of the day. “I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea how to get breakfast around here.”
Something flickered in Bash’s expression—not mockery, thankfully, but what might have been understanding. “The dining hall?”
“Yes, well, obviously, but…” I gestured helplessly. “I’m not familiar with American customs, only what I know from Oxford. Which dining hall are we assigned to? Are there specific times? How do we pay? Is there some sort of protocol?”
Bash was quiet for a moment, and I was certain he was cataloguing how sheltered and useless his new roommate was. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “They explained all that in the welcome booklet we received. At least, I did and I assumed you did as well.”
I blew out a breath. “I’m sorry to report that must’ve gotten lost in the stack of papers I had to fill out and sign.”
What else had I missed? I’d been so focused on getting here, on getting out of England, that I hadn’t even considered what would happen once I was here. Oh, I’d devoted far too much time to worrying about Bash’s presence, to be clear. But I hadn’t spared a thought to navigating university life here. How different would it be from what I was accustomed to?
“It’s not that complicated,” he said, standing up. “And I’ll wager good money it won’t be so different from what you’re used to in England.”
