Contingency Plan (Blackbridge Security 3)

I choke on laughter, biting the tip of my straw to keep from drawing attention. I don’t mind people here, and I really like having the noise and activity, but I’m in no mood to socialize in a group. Sasha is fine, plus after another drink, she’ll wander away in search of her good time for the night. She better heed my warnings and stay away from the BBS guys, especially Flynn.

“Who is that guy?” She angles her head at Ignacio, the man with the sexy Latin accent, tan skin, and bedroom eyes for days.

He’s chatting with a girl I don’t know, not necessarily flirting, but she must not understand. I know the occasional nibble on his bottom lip looks like he’s hitting on her, but I’ve been watching him for a while, and he’s not paying much attention to the girl. No, he’s watching Flynn scowl in the corner.

The guy I can’t get off my mind—no matter how hard I try—is in his normal uniform of dark slacks, but at least he’s gotten rid of the button-down shirt in exchange for one that clings to his muscles in the humidity surrounding the pool.

“Remington?”

“Hmm?” I pull my eyes from the scowling man and look back at Sasha.

“Do you know him?”

“That’s Flynn. He’s part of the security detail.” I’ve already told her this once, but she’s been throwing the drinks back for the last two hours, so it’s no surprise she’s already forgotten.

“No, the one over there?”

She points back to Ignacio who notices us looking at him. I grin when he winks, and it transitions into a low chuckle when a growl comes from the other side of the room. I don’t have to turn my head to know Flynn is the one who snarled.

“Don’t know,” I lie. “Must’ve come with someone else.”

Flynn told me, after practically dragging me back upstairs and forcing me to put a top on, that several of the guys were going to be casual around the pool and he, Brooks, and Finnegan were going to be more visible.

Casual means Ignacio, Quinten, and Gaige are in board shorts. The first sight of them with their shirts off made me wonder if six-packs are a BBS requirement, and if so, these men passed with flying colors. Holy muscles, do they have them in spades.

“Does she think she actually has a shot with him?”

“Do you know her?” I don’t know why I’m engaging in this conversation with her. She’s going to turn bitter, hating any woman she sees as standing in the way of something she wants. I’ve been on the receiving end of that ire more than once, and as I sit here and watch Sasha’s face transition from playful and flirty to something resembling irate indignation, I question why I decided to invite people over in the first place.

Maybe it has more to do with having six smoking hot guys piled into my house and being unable to keep my eyes off Flynn.

I know the rules. I know what the contract says that he had to sign to work for my family. I’ve used it more than once to get assholes fired. I don’t want him fired, not that my parents would know a single thing if it’s something I plan to keep away from them. Plus, I haven’t done that in a while. Phillip was genuinely not interested, and before him, I was practically jailbait. I wanted them gone, not in jail for touching a minor. I’m a selfish bitch, but I’m not psycho.

“Leave her alone.”

“Look,” she snaps. “He’s not even paying attention to her.”

“He doesn’t want you either.”

As if on a swivel, her head spins around. “Excuse me?”

I shrug. “He doesn’t want you either.”

My pulse speeds up as I keep my voice calm. Confronting her has the potential to go very badly. Sasha Davenport has the unique ability to be such a diva that she has no problem drawing the attention of every person in this room by losing her shit. Decorum doesn’t come into play—even though she’s a guest in my home—when she gets her feathers ruffled.

“Hey, birthday girl.” Sasha’s eyes narrow, and thankfully it’s because her attention has been pulled from me to the guy who just settled into the lounger on the other side of me.

I turn, my fake smile growing wider, faker when I see it’s the blond guy from the pool. At least he knows this is a pre-birthday party. Others I’ve known for years haven’t even mentioned it, asking where the bar was the second they stepped in the house.

“Remington,” I say, offering my hand and pulling it back after only a couple of seconds of contact with his.

“Preston.” His smile is wide, if a little shy.

He has to be new money. He doesn’t have that cocky air of entitlement to him yet. If anything, he seems a little in awe of being here, and I find myself growing to enjoy his company as we sit silently, watching the guys continue to hit the ball around the pool.