Ten minutes later, and the stairs creak. Damn, my guest is on his way back down.

What should I do about food? Offer to cook for him? I rarely cook for myself. I live on nibbles and takeaways, with a smoothie in the morning. Many evenings, my meal consists of cold cuts, a little bread, olive oil to dip the bread in, and bits of tasty morsels such as olives, sun dried tomatoes, and capers.

“Do you mind if I use your kitchen?” Samuel’s voice at the door has me turning my head.

I almost choke on my olive.

Holy shit.

Seriously, holy fucking shit.

He’s standing in the doorway, one arm up on the lintel, and I cannot parse all that he is.

Firstly, he’s massive, on a scale I didn’t realize while he was in the dark fitted suit. I mean, I knew the moment I saw him he was big, but oh my God, he’s big. His raised arm is a map of muscle and ink. So much ink. It crawls all over his skin—dark, dangerous, and compelling.

At his hip is a gun, in a holster, and my heart pounds at the sight. Jesus fuck, this guy isn’t playing around. How is that even legal?

Leaning into the room farther, and stretching his arm, he distracts me from the gun with his arm muscles.

He is wearing a sage green t-shirt and jeans. Ink works its way up his neck. He frowns at me and drops his arm, taking two steps into the room and crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his pecks bulge and pulls his T-shirt tight, and oh, Lord. Under the cotton, I can make out the clear shape of piercings on his nipples.

I glance instinctively to his ears, but there are none there.

He cocks his head to one side. “Are you okay?”

“What? Erm, yes. I erm, what did you say; sorry?”

“Can I rustle up something to eat in the kitchen? I brought some food. I won’t be eating yours.”

“Samuel, you can eat my food; don’t be silly.” I’m offended. And I can’t stop staring.

He smirks, one sided and devastating. “I looked in your fridge, and a man cannot survive on olives and Parma ham alone.”

What even is that smile? Is that a secret weapon of mass destruction he’s been hiding away until this very moment?

Nope. I cannot do this. I will not develop some sort of pathetic, learned-helplessness crush on my bodyguard. I will not.

He’s an ass, I tell myself. So not my type. Bet he’s never read a book in his life. All that ink, not my thing. I don’t even have my ears pierced. We are incompatible as anything, and I’m just having some sort of hormonal moment. I must be due for my period.