Page 149 of Less

“Thanks.”

Then something occurs to me.

I narrow my eyes.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Why are you here? Don't you have actual work to do?”

He blinks.

“I am working.”

“No, I mean other jobs.”

He looks genuinely confused.

“Rusty.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really.”

I throw up my hands.

“Less, surely there are other clients. Other assignments. This is just rehearsal, and after last time, you’ve got the place locked down. You don’t have to hang around here,” I say, but inside I don’t want him to go.

He shakes his head, and I immediately feel better.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired of me?” Less teases.

I shake my head, but wait for him to finish before responding, “Look, don’t freak out, but Chance Madoc and Oliver Pax hired Sigma to oversee security for the duration.”

I blink.

“What?”

“I am your bodyguard for the duration of the show. But if I have anything to say about it, I’ll be guarding that body for a damn sight longer.”

The words come out with a finality that brooks absolutely no argument.

“For better or worse,” he whispers.

My stomach flips.

Because that's ridiculously possessive.

Ridiculously over-the-top.

And ridiculously hot.

Which is inconvenient, since I still have six hours of rehearsals left.

“You know you're impossible, right?”

“So I've been told.”