Singe (Guardian Protection #1)

“Little help here,” I called out.

And then my entire body locked when a tattoo-free arm stretched toward me. It was only the briefest of seconds before I recognized his voice. But it was more than enough time for my heart to lurch into my throat and all the blood to drain from my face.

“Shit. Are you okay?” Devon asked, taking the boxes from my hands.

I mentally chastised my overactive imagination and did my best to get myself back together. “Yeah. I’m good.” I added a laugh to really sell it.

He eyed me warily for a moment but then let it go. “Why don’t you have this shit delivered to us instead of carrying it down from your apartment?”

I pasted on a snarky smile. “Because then everyone would stop asking me that question. I’ve grown quite fond of it over the last two years.”

Yes, I could have had breakfast delivered to the door of Guardian Protection. It wasn’t like the bakery would charge me an extra delivery fee for going one floor up. But, if I did that, I wouldn’t have gotten to spend the morning bullshitting with my guys before they had to head out on their assignments.

Writing was a solitary career, but with Guardian so close, I’d never felt alone. Leo and the entire Guardian crew had adopted me the day Johnson had first escorted me through the front doors.

They’d never looked back.

And neither had I.

I dug my access card from my back pocket and waved it in front of the elevator sensor. “Where’s Johnson?”

Devon looked down at me and grinned. “He got busy, so he sent me to help your stubborn ass bring up breakfast.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

His teasing grin warmed reassuringly. “Your little boyfriend’s fine. We’ve got a new guy and he and Leo were prepping him for his first assignment.”

I nodded, unconvinced. Aidan Johnson was never too busy for me—even when he was.

I tapped the toe of my red-soled pump against Devon’s dress shoe. “You might not want to let him hear you calling him my little boyfriend.”

When the elevator arrived, I took a step inside, holding my arm in the door so it wouldn’t shut.

“But thanks for helping,” I said. “There’s a special chocolate croissant in it for you.”

His mouth fell open as he slowly turned his head to me. “So that’s why he helps you every week.”

I laughed and pressed the button. “Actually, no. I do strip aerobics on Friday mornings before breakfast. He likes to come watch.”

His dark eyes widened as he breathed, “Shut the fuck up. Seriously?”

I shook my head and laughed harder. “No. It’s totally the chocolate croissant.”

He bumped me with his shoulder. “I was about to be pissed I was missing the show.”

“You should be. I’m fucking killer on a pole. I’ve won the Chicago Strip Club Championship for three years in a row.”

The elevator door opened and I exited.

Devon didn’t follow me. “No fucking way.”

“Don’t look so surprised. If it hadn’t been for that trifling ho oiling the stage, it would have been four years in a row.”

The shock remained on his face as he slowly stepped out of the elevator. “Did you just call someone a trifling ho?”

I nodded and kept talking over my shoulder as I walked toward the door. “Yep. And don’t get me started on the year before, when she sabotaged me by putting fiberglass in my body glitter. I was itching for a week. I swear, if I hadn’t been sleeping with three of the judges, I wouldn’t have had a shot in hell that year.”

I smiled to myself when his footsteps came to a sudden halt.

“You’re fucking with me,” he stated in disbelief.

“I wish I were.” I flashed my card at the door and pushed it wide, a rush of warm air enveloping me.

There was something about Guardian Protection that eased my soul in ways I hadn’t experienced since my father had died. It was more than just a security firm. Inside that apartment-slash-office, I felt a luxury I had rarely been afforded over the last few years—absolute safety. No one could touch me when I was with my guys.

Not even Apollo.

Devon walked straight to the table and set the mountain of boxes down before turning back to me. “I’m calling bullshit.”

“You can call whatever you want, but I’ve never been able to trust glitter again.”

He narrowed his eyes, and a wicked grin pulled at one side of his mouth. “See, as much as I think you’re full of shit, I’m really enjoying the idea of Rhion the stripper.”

“Watch your fucking mouth, Grant. Let me hear you call her a stripper again,” was drawled in a Southern accent behind me.

I turned to find Alex striding my way. I could have used a lot of colorful adjectives to describe the men of Guardian Protection. But there was only one way to describe Alex Pearson: strong and silent. He was Mr. All-American. Clean cut. Southern gentleman. Former college football player. Handsome in that boy-next-door way. Well, that is if you lived next door to a family of giants. Alex was fucking HUGE. Six-six and, I swear, nearly as wide as he was tall.

I craned my head back. “Good morning to you, too.”

He went straight to the box of bagels, reached in, and pulled three out. “How’d Bible study go this morning?”

“Bible study!” Devon laughed, arching his eyebrow at me. “Was this before or after the strip show?”

“Who’s stripping?” Braydon asked, sauntering in and reaching around Alex to grab a muffin from the pastry box.

Braydon Hughes was the youngest of the Guardian crew. He was tall and well-built but much more on the lanky side of the spectrum compared to Alex. While Braydon and I weren’t particularly close, I still thought he was extremely charming and a blast to hang out with. So much so that I managed to overlook the fact that he was a raging womanizer. Though I probably should have been offended that he’d never hit on me. Not even before he had known that Johnson would have ripped his arms off.

“No one,” Alex growled at the same time Devon answered, “Rhion.”

Braydon smirked, popping his sexy, sexy—dear God, it bears repeating—sexy dimple. “What happened? You getting out of the cake-decorating business?”

“We got cake today?” Lark asked, lifting the lid on the box. His thick shoulders fell when he found the usual.

“Sorry,” I laughed at his disappointment. The man loved his sweets. “Have an apple fritter,” I suggested.