Page 52 of The Bodyguard's Fall

“Fine,” I said, stretching my arm muscles. “Let’s do this.”

“Okay. Show me what you’ve got.”

Though it wasn’t at all what he was asking for, I dug into my pocket and pulled out the thing that had brought me an unrealistic amount of comfort the past few months. I didn’t need karate when I could just push a button. It was my safety net, and even though it was slightly ridiculous, I held the keychain out in front of me like he should have been scared. The whole itty-bitty vial fit snugly between my thumb and forefinger.

“Well, you haven’t seen me use this thing yet.”

He squinted. “What is that?”

“Mace.” I ceremoniously flipped the lid off with my thumb, my eyes never leaving his. “If you were actually an attacker, you’d be on the ground, rendered helpless right now.”

“Do you always hold it backward?”

“What?” I glanced down at the can for only a split second, but it was too late. The can of Mace had been knocked from my hand, and he was now a mere inch away, a light grip on my wrist, and towering over me.

“Hey!” I began to say before my senses heightened at his chest in my space and his fingers touching my skin. I breathed deeply through my nose, attempting to center myself. Leroy’s presence, though rarely physical, was dominating and terrifying. Tate being so physically in my space was terrifying in another kind of way. I felt the distinction immediately.

“It wasn’t facing the wrong way,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Unless you know what you’re doing, it’s more likely that a can of Mace will end up being used on you.”

“Well, if you had played fair, I would have won.”

In a smile I could only describe as…devastating, he leaned closer, his face inches from mine. “No. You wouldn’t have.”

We were standing too close, him trying to intimidate me and doing a great job of it, and me trying to make it seem like I wasn’t intimidated and doing a terrible job of it. But it was the tantalizing scent of his woodsy cologne that was…too close. Apparently, Mace wasn’t the only thing here that could render a person helpless.

As if he suddenly realized how we were standing, Tate took a step back, and my lungs could once again take in air.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s try something else. I’m going to get in your face for a bit. I’ll probably grab you around your waist and try to pull you against me. Try to keep your fantasies under wraps. This is police business. I want to see what your natural instincts are. You good with that?”

It was the “grab you” part of his sentence that slightly staggered me, but I mumbled a quick, “Yeah.”

Before I could think or blink or try to prepare myself, he was in my face, looming over me. Startled, I took a step back. He followed. I attempted to push him away (he didn’t budge) before I turned to run, which was a joke because his arms became a vise grip around my waist, trapping me against his body in seconds.

“Do you have natural instincts?” he asked, dropping me back down on the ground.

I took a step away from him and straightened my clothes, my breathing more erratic than it should have been. “You caught me off guard.”

“I told you I was coming.”

“Fine,” I said, bending my legs and holding my hands up in a fighter mode I’d seen on TV. “I’m ready now.”

This time, I tried to fake a left before breaking toward the right, really hoping the laps I used to jog when I was a cheerleader still held up ten years later.

They did not.

He fell for none of my tricks. I put up more of a fight with elbows and claws, but once again, I found myself trapped against his stomach, my arms detained by his. He began walking backward, carrying me effortlessly.

“Put your legs down,” he instructed sharply in my ear. “Find the ground and dig. Stop kindly allowing me to drag you off to my car.”

The curse word leaving my lips became muffled as I twisted and grunted, using all my strength in an attempt to find the ground. He only yanked my body up higher, making the endeavor impossible. Finally, he stopped and loosened his hold, and I wriggled out of his embrace.

“What happened to you?” he asked, his words a splash of cold water to the face.

“One more time,” I insisted.

Tate held out his arms in a ‘come and get me’ gesture, which was the opposite of how we’d been playing. I definitely wasn’t comfortable going on the offensive, but I couldn’t cry off now.