There’s a knock on the door behind us, and it swings open, and—

Wow.

Yeah, this guy is not a blend-into-a-crowd type. He’s gotta be at least six five, and he fills up the doorway—weight-lifter muscles under a lovingly clinging tee, a torso that tapers from broad shoulders to a trim waist, and tree-trunk thighs beneath snug-fitting jeans. His jaw is a hard line to a well-defined chin; his eyes are flecks of pale blue ice; his nose is Roman-warrior-worthy, and his mouth is lush.

Did I say wow? Let me reiterate: Wow.

“Autumn, this is my brother, Tucker; Tucker, Autumn.”

I stand up. Giant White Guy grunts and extends a hand. Mine disappears into his, into heat and calluses and thick fingers that make me wonder—

Nope. Not wondering.

“Thanks so much for being willing to do this on short notice,” I say.

He grunts again.

Okay, so not a conversationalist. We’ll have to work on that because there is zero chance I would date a guy who isn’t a talker. My sister would never believe that.

“Anything you two need from me?” Hanna asks. “Or can you take it from here? I have to run a couple of errands.”

“That’s fine!” I say, hoping to warm him up a bit by being extra friendly, definitely one of my superpowers. “We’ll be great, right, Tucker?”

A grunt.

Not warm yet, but I can work on it.

She gives both of us a look that says she doubts we’ll be great, shoots Tucker another look that I interpret as Behave, and slips out the door.

“So!” I say brightly. “This is gonna be a cinch!”

He raises both eyebrows but doesn’t respond.

“Hanna told you about the discretion thing, right? That my sister can’t know that you’re a bodyguard, because she can’t know that my dad thinks there might be danger at her wedding?”

The grunts clearly have different meanings. I’m taking this one as a yes.

“But I don’t see that as a problem! Because”—I pause for effect—“you can pretend to be my date for the wedding week!”

 

“I told her we met at the hotel bar,” she says. “At a conference.”

My brain gets stuck, like someone’s jammed a pole into an old-fashioned steam engine.

There are so many things wrong with this situation, I don’t know where to start.

But the biggest of all is that Autumn Sato is…

Hot.

It hit me like a ton of bricks when I stepped into the room.

Long dark hair, dark eyes, gorgeous smooth skin, and a soft wide mouth painted glossy red in a way that instantly made me think of things I shouldn’t be thinking about. Since I couldn’t look at her mouth, I let my eyes drop, and that was a mistake, too, because I’m a sucker for willowy, for small, secret curves, tits you can cup completely in your hands.

So when she says that she told her sister we met at the hotel bar at a conference, I can see it way too easily.

The two of us side by side in a dark bar, heads tilted toward each other, her lips tilted up in a suggestive smile. The incline of her head as she suggests we go upstairs. The elevator door closing, her crossing the space between us to rise up onto her toes, my hands closing around her slim hips, drawing her abruptly, possessively, against me, the give of her mouth as I take it, hungry.

And then I push it all away—her pretty smile, her slim hips, the feel of her body against mine, the softness of her mouth, my ravenousness.

I hate myself because the last thing, the very, very, very last thing I want is to have any feelings—even the basest, least romantic ones—for another client.

It cannot happen.

Then I fully absorb what she’s said, and: “Wait a second.”

Her eyebrows go up.

“What kind of conference?”

She bites her lip.

“Autumn. What kind of conference.”

“A by-invitation-only Happiness Extravaganza.” She barely whispers it.

“You told your sister I was at a happiness conference.”

She winces. “I didn’t realize you were going to turn out to be—” She traces her hands as if outlining the contours of my body in space. I ignore the way that lights my skin on fire and instead focus on the absolute depths of bullshit she’s taken us to.

“A grumpy asshole who doesn’t talk,” I finish for her.

“I wouldn’t have put it that way⁠—”

“But you think it.”

“I prefer not to use labels.”

I scowl. This woman. At least there’s that. At least there’s the fact that in a million years, I could never fall for someone like her, all sunshine and roses and I prefer not to use labels. All It’s gonna be great!

Spoken like someone who’s dodged all of life’s bullets.

I shake my head, not bothering to hide my exasperation. “Okay. You’re not labeling me. But you decided to tell your sister, before you met me, that I was someone who would show up at a happiness conference.”

Something hardens in her gaze. “Wishful thinking,” she says, words sharp.

Ah. So she’s not all sweetness and light.

But then, like a curtain coming down on the moment of honesty, she smiles, bright and perky again. “I guess we’ll have to work on your…grumpies.”

“My—” I can’t even repeat the word.

“You know, jolly you out of them. You can’t be grunting at everyone. No one will believe you’re my type.”

Ouch. Not that I care.

“What is your type, exactly? Wait, I know the answer to this—Buddy the Elf.”

The smile slips a little. “No one wants Buddy the Elf for a romantic partner.”

 “He gets the girl in the end.”

“It’s a Christmas movie.”

“So Dani Rojas from Ted Lasso.”

Her gaze skids away.

“Nailed it, huh?”

“What about you?” She squints at me. “Cruella de Vil? Cersei Lannister? No, wait. I’ve got it: blond, busty, and looks up at you in adoration.”

“Annie Wilkes in Misery,” I say. “Can’t argue with bondage.”

I might be baiting her. It’s possible that, against my will, I’m amused by this. It’s possible that for the first time in a long time, I’m curious about what’s going to happen next, like this is a movie I’ve found myself in, written by someone else.

It’s possible that for the first time in a long time, I feel alive, something I can’t name surging in my blood.