His Saint (Forever Wilde 5)

I was prepared to give her a pep talk about finding the right woman when I heard the receptionist say my name. “Gotta go, sis. My client just walked in. Please consider coming up to Hobie this weekend if you can. Love you.”

“Love you too. Keep an eye on her, Saint,” MJ said in a serious tone.

As I hung up, I tried to psych myself up for the boring task ahead. I’d already researched the guy on the internet and read up on him before our session. He owned a little antiques shop in Hobie near the pub my brother had helped open. I wasn’t sure exactly what had brought him to my tiny hometown from Dallas the year before, but it seemed a far cry from the rest of his family who seemed to own half of Dallas and flaunted their wealth in all of the social spheres in the city.

The photos I’d found showed August himself to be an attractive guy maybe in his late twenties. He wasn’t the elegant, glamorous yacht-riding douche I’d pictured when I’d read Lanny’s client file, and I had to admit something about the man’s photo drew me in. I decided it wasn’t possible for him to be that geekily adorable in real life, but I had to hand it to the guy, he employed a genius in the Photoshop department. And according to the articles online, he wasn’t necessarily as wealthy as his mother or grandfather, but he did have a significant net worth nonetheless. August’s great-aunt had passed away almost a year earlier, leaving him a penthouse in the city and a farmhouse in Hobie, but I hadn’t realized what else they were involved in until I did the research on them that afternoon. The Stiel family had a charity foundation, which was essentially a multimillion-dollar conservative think tank and contributor to every far-right organization in Texas. The Stiel Foundation had enough money to impact elections, research, and policy. The sheer amount of money they managed was breathtaking. The family name was such a big deal in Texas social circles, August’s father had taken the Stiel name upon marriage rather than Jonathan Stiel having to become a lowly Smith.

In addition to money and connections, online rumor had it August Stiel was also in a long-term relationship with the gorgeous news anchor at one of the largest television stations in Dallas–Fort Worth. I wondered if that was another potential feather in Lanny’s cap. Providing security services to a local celebrity would pull in lots of great visibility for the company.

When I walked to the front desk to greet him, I learned just how wrong I’d been about August Stiel’s photo. No Photoshop in the world could improve upon how attractive he was in real life. He was specifically sent by the devil to tempt me as punishment for calling that last client a brat.

I’d landed another spoiled rich client to babysit. Only this one was…

This one was… ungh.

My feet froze in place, running shoes making a squeaking sound on the floor, drawing his attention. I stared at him. He wasn’t large by any means, but he carried himself erect as if he felt the need to keep even his body under strict control at all times. Dark-rimmed glasses framed his hazel eyes, and his forehead had quotation mark furrows in the center between his brows. His lips were red and sensual like a woman’s, but his jaw was angled and tight like a man’s. He had thick, dark hair and five-o’clock shadow that made him look moody and mysterious in his dark business suit. Everything about the man looked wound up tight enough to snap.

Which just made me want to snap him as soon as I could.

“You must be Mr. Stiel,” I said, reaching out a hand to shake as I forced myself into motion again.

“I am,” he said. His voice was decisive but quieter than I expected. His eyes seemed to be studying me from behind his glasses, and I wondered what he was thinking. A sliver of need snaked through my gut, and I mentally slapped myself. Was I for fucking real? Seriously, Saint, he’s a goddamned client. Keep your fucking distance. Be professional.

“My name is Saint Wilde. I’ll be training you. Welcome to Twist.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Why don’t we start by getting you out of those clothes,” I suggested. Way to go with the professional talk, asshole.

His eyes flared for a microsecond before his brow furrowed deeper. “Excuse me?”

Get it together, Saint. “Unless you wanted to work out in your suit? Fine by me, I guess. Suit yourself.”

The receptionist rolled her eyes at my pun, but Mr. Stiel didn’t seem to have noticed it. The man looked down at himself as if realizing for the first time he was not dressed for the task at hand. “Oh crap.”