He seems excited to see me, until he realizes that the man who followed me through the door is also following us to our table.

“Raylan Boone,” Raylan says, not waiting for me to introduce him. He grabs Dean’s hand and shakes it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Raylan is a security expert,” I explain. “My family hired him. He’s going to be shadowing me for the next few days.”

“Or weeks,” Raylan interjects.

“Okay . . . ” Dean says, returning Raylan’s handshake without quite the same level of enthusiasm. “Why, exactly?”

“There was an incident last night,” I say. “Nothing serious. But we thought it would be better to take precautions.”

I see Raylan’s amused gaze flit over to me, interested that I haven’t told Dean what happened, and clearly am not planning to tell him all the details now either.

“What kind of incident?” Dean says, frowning.

“Nothing serious,” I say breezily. “Let’s order our drinks.”

Dean and I sit across from each other at the small, square table. Raylan sits on the side, like our chaperone.

“Serious enough that you need a full-time bodyguard . . . ” Dean says. He looks over at Raylan warily, like he’s not sure how much to include him in the conversation. I’m sure he’s wary for other reasons, too. Despite the fact that Raylan has the haircut of a hillbilly and hasn’t shaved in weeks, he’s still objectively handsome. His blue eyes look especially bright next to his black hair and thick, dark eyebrows. His pointed incisors give him a wolfish look when he grins.

I could assure Dean that Raylan is also cocky, pushy, and completely not my type. But I’m not in the habit of assuring Dean of anything. It’s not my job to soothe his insecurities.

Raylan isn’t helping matters.

“Don’t worry, Doc,” he says. “I’ll keep Riona safe. And anything you two lovebirds wanna talk about . . . just pretend I’m not here. Just like doctor-patient confidentiality, what the bodyguard hears, he keeps to himself.”

He says it with that cheerful smirk on his face that makes you think he’s teasing you, no matter what words are coming out of his mouth. Dean frowns. He hates being teased even more than I do.

The waiter comes to take our drink orders. I get a vodka soda, Dean a glass of wine.

“Just water, thanks,” Raylan says.

“Still or sparkling?” the waiter asks.

“Whatever’s free and cold.”

“You can have a drink,” I say to Raylan.

“Nah,” he says. “I’m on the clock.”

“There is no clock,” I tell him.

“On the job, then.”

I don’t know why it irritates me that he won’t have a drink. I guess because I’d prefer to think of him as an unnecessary precaution, not an actual professional bodyguard.

Dean, seeing that he’s not going to get the information he wants out of me, switches to questioning Raylan directly.

“So . . . how do you know the Griffins?” he asks.