Page 10 of The Bodyguard's Bookworm
The single word makes heat shimmer low in my stomach. There’s still a question between us, the one that’s been there since last night in the rain. Will we or won’t we? How long can I pretend this is ordinary when nothing about him feels ordinary to me?
Outside, the morning is bright and cool, the pavement still damp from last night’s weather. Connor holds the door for me, then falls into step at my side. “What’s next?”
“Errands.”
“Want company?”
I glance up at him. “You understand I mean deeply boring errands, right? Dry cleaner. Post office. Hardware store. Possibly a thrilling stop for printer paper.”
“I can handle it.”
“You say that now. Nobody is prepared for how long I take choosing office supplies.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
And that’s how I end up spending my day off with a man who looks wildly out of place everywhere and somehow makes every task feel easier. At the dry cleaner, he carries my garment bag even after I tell him it weighs less than a sandwich. At the post office, he stands so close that I can feel the heat of him behind me but never close enough to actually come in contact. At the hardware store, he studies the lock display with a seriousness that makes the employee straighten up and start recommending deadbolts with fear in his eyes.
By noon, I’ve stopped pretending I don’t enjoy having him there.
It’s domestic in a way that should probably overwhelm me. Connor putting bags in my trunk. Connor asking whether I needlight bulbs. Connor taking the basket from me at the grocery store without pausing the conversation. I keep telling myself to keep my head on straight, but there’s something so pleasant about moving through ordinary places with him beside me, as if we’ve done it a hundred times before.
We’re halfway down the condiments aisle when he says, “We should get lunch after this.”
I laugh and reach for a jar of roasted peppers. “Are you always preoccupied with food?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.” I put the jar in the basket and try not to look too pleased by the fact that he wants more time with me. “Do you like baked pasta?”
“I like all pasta.”
“Very refined palate.” I turn us toward the dairy case, feeling reckless and oddly happy. “I make a good one. Sausage, roasted peppers, mozzarella, tons of sauce. If you want, I can cook.”
Connor stops walking.
I glance back. “What?”
His eyes move over my face, intent and hot enough to make my pulse trip. “I want.”
We drive separately back to my apartment, and I spend the whole drive telling myself this is just lunch. Normal lunch. Day-off lunch with the protective ex-military bodyguard who read a romance novel because I joked about it and looked at me in the rain as if kissing me might become a life-altering event.
So maybe not normal lunch.
My apartment is small, sunny, and cleaner than usual because I panic-tidied this morning before breakfast. Connor carries the grocery bags up without comment, though I catch the quick sweep of his gaze when we step inside. Front door. Windows. Kitchen. Hallway. He can’t help himself, and I’m starting to understand that about him.
“You don’t have to threat-assess my throw pillows,” I say, taking the mozzarella from one of the bags.
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
“Only the windows.”
I laugh and turn on the oven to preheat. Connor leans against the edge of my kitchen counter while I chop peppers, brown sausage, and stir sauce in a wide pan. He watches me with that focused attention that makes my skin feel too sensitive in the best of ways.
“Here.” I lift the spoon, then realize too late how intimate it feels to offer him a taste straight from it. “Tell me if this needs salt.”
Connor bends, his eyes on mine as he tastes the sauce. His mouth closes around the spoon, and the kitchen goes very quiet.
