I mean, Henrietta’s always up for a good time, but she’s still a doctor—still like me when she needs to be. Ruled by facts and knowledge and structure—dosages and practiced techniques and treatments.
Tommy Sullivan is nothing like that. If he were a doctor, he’d probably shock himself with a defibrillator just to see what it feels like.
“Being a bodyguard—do you enjoy it?”
His grin broadens. “Yeah, sure I do.”
“Why?”
“It’s a challenge for myself—like a contest. It’s keeps me sharp, quick . . .” he wiggles his eyebrows “. . . hard. The work is interesting—sometimes dangerous, always an adrenaline rush—the money’s good. But in a way, it’s not so different from you. God gave me a very special set of skills—I like using them to keep small, helpless things alive too. To protect them, when they can’t protect themselves.”
The thud of the door closing and the steps of the Realtor echo off the bare walls and break the solitude of the moment.
He lifts his gaze from mine and scans it around the room.
“I’m gonna take it.”
“Just like that? You don’t want to take time to consider it? Speak with your accountant, weigh the pros and cons?”
“No. I like the view, I like the feel of the place—my gut says take it.”
I tilt my head, still mystified by him.
“Do you always do that? Just . . . go with your gut?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
“What about you?” He lifts his chin in my direction. “Are you always so logical? Always waiting to sort everything out in your head before you make a move?”
I smile wistfully. “Hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”
* * *
I remember the day I graduated medical school—the mixture of accomplishment that I’d done it and disappointment that I hadn’t placed higher in my class. I remember it as clear as if it were yesterday—even though it was over three years ago.
Time speeds up when you’re busy. Focused. Hours go by like minutes, days like hours, months like just a few days. And so I’m shocked when Tommy Sullivan’s last day of guarding me arrives so quickly.
As we had anticipated, the threats against my family never materialized. I’ve gone about my life as I would have if they hadn’t happened. Nothing of significance has changed.
And yet . . . it feels like something has.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Tommy Sullivan and I are in my kitchen. Did he follow me here when I came in for a glass of water or when I was washing up from dinner? I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter.
It’s late, dark outside the window, but I’m not sleeping—not even tired. I’m in my bedclothes—a satin, long-sleeved violet top with matching trousers.
“Of course.”
“If I try to kiss you at midnight, when I’m off shift and you’re officially not a client anymore . . . would you let me?”
My breath whooshes from my lungs. Because I remember his kiss—it was like a roller coaster—the swooping upside-down invigorating sensation that you want to feel again, and again, and again.
“Is this why you gave Bea the night off?”
He moves closer.
“It is.”
“This was your plan all along?”
And closer.
“It really was.”
My eyes dart to the clock above the stove—11:59. So soon.
“It wouldn’t be proper—”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His face is so near to mine, my eyes slide closed on instinct.
And it’s even better—because my other senses come alive—and there’s the scent of him, the teasing brush of his nose against mine, the sensation that his stubbled jaw is right there and if I move a millimeter, I’ll be able to revel in its tantalizing scrape.
“I want to kiss you, Abby. More than I can remember wanting anything, in a long time. I want this. You. And I think, deep down you want it too.”
I can almost taste him. It. The kiss. I know how good it will be. Perfect.
And a very bad decision. The kind that opens up all the boxes—of Pandora and all those other Greek gods, whose names I can’t remember right now.
By most measures, parachuting out of a plane is also a very bad decision. But people do it all the time. Because they love the fall. The flight. The feeling of soaring air and whipping winds.
I’ve never been the jumping sort.
But with him—a reaching, yearning, desperate part of me wants to give it try.
“Open your eyes, Abby.”
When I do, I’m met with warm honey-brown eyes—like they’re lit from within.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .”
I’m going to say yes.
The word is there on my lips, the tingling, thrilling taste of it on the very tip of my tongue. Because I want this—the brush of his lips, the feel of his hot skin and firm muscle beneath my palm. The feel of him everywhere.
It’s been so long since I wanted anything just for me.