Page 5 of The Bodyguard's Bookworm
His mouth curves, slow and brief. “You asked.”
“I’m starting to see that as my mistake.” I look back at my menu to give myself somewhere else to look, because his almost-smile does something unfairly handsome to his face.
When the server returns, I order a turkey club and fries. Connor gets a double burger, fries, onion rings, coleslaw, and a bowl of chili, then looks at me when I raise my eyebrows.
“Workout this morning,” he says.
“I saw the shirt. I inferred.”
His gaze holds mine for a beat too long, and warmth spreads through me, unwelcome and very much not subtle. I busy myself smoothing the paper napkin beside my silverware, even though it clearly does not need smoothing.
“So how does someone end up owning a bookstore?” he asks.
I’m relieved for the easy question. I tell him about working there in college, back when the old owner ran the place with reading glasses on a chain and an absolute refusal to stock anything she considered the slightest bit racy. I tell him how I left for a few years, worked a job I was decent at but never loved, then came back when the owner decided to retire.
“It’s not always romantic,” I admit, dragging one fingertip through the condensation on my glass. “People think it’s cozy afternoons and recommending novels to charming strangers. There’s also inventory, invoices, dust, and pretending I understand social media. But it’s mine. I wanted a life that felt mine.”
Connor’s expression is serious, but not heavy. “You got it.”
“I’m working on keeping it.”
“You will.”
“You sound very sure for someone who saw my business for one day.”
“I saw enough,” he says, full of certainty.
Maybe that should bother me. But I spend so much of my life making decisions alone, carrying every problem from first panic to final solution, that having someone believe in you without hesitation feels like a long-needed hug.
Our food arrives, giving me something to do with my hands. Connor eats with the straightforward focus of a man who treats food as fuel, but he also asks what I’m reading, what I loved as a kid, and which book I secretly hate that everyone else loves. I expect him to glaze over eventually. He doesn’t. He wants details. He asks follow-up questions, not the polite kind, the real kind.
In return, I get pieces of him. He joined the military at eighteen because he wanted structure and money for school, then stayed because he was good at the work. He doesn’t talk about the hard parts in much detail, but the edges are there. Long deployments. Friends he still checks on. A body that wakes fully alert at the smallest sound. After he left, personal security made sense because he already knew how to watch doors, read crowds, and stay calm when the pressure hits.
“Do you miss being in the military?” I ask.
“Some parts.”
“Which parts?”
He’s quiet long enough that I think he might not answer. Then he sets his coffee down. “The clarity. Knowing the job. Knowing who’s beside you. Knowing what matters when everything gets loud.”
“And now?”
“Now people pay me to stand near them while they pretend they aren’t scared.”
The answer is too honest for a casual dinner. I study him across the table, the ridiculously broad shoulders, the scar near one eyebrow, the controlled way he holds himself. He should feel intimidating. He does, in some ways. But there’s something tender under all that strength, too.
“Is that what you thought I was doing today?” I ask. “Pretending I wasn’t scared?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “Some of the time.”
I set down the fry I’ve been holding and look toward the window. Outside, people pass with jackets tucked around them against the evening air. Ordinary life, ordinary sidewalk, ordinary glass reflecting light back into the restaurant. Nothing threatening. Nothing that should make my stomach tighten.
“I know who did it,” I say.
Connor goes still. He just stops moving, every bit of attention coming to rest on me.
“At least, I’m pretty sure.” I make myself look back at him. “There’s a man who comes into the store sometimes. David. He started out friendly, then got persistent. Asked me out more than once. I said no every time, politely at first, then less politely when polite didn’t work.”
