Page 16 of Gunnar

Her expression shifts slightly. While the frustration remains, I catch a glimpse of the reason we are here. Fear. The kind of fear that has been keeping her up at night. While she might be hiding it behind sarcasm and adorable little temper tantrums, deep down, she knows that this escalation doesn’t stop at flowers. They were only a message; a promise of something much worse.

Devyn’s gaze drops briefly to her hands, then returns to mine. “Yes.” The answer is quiet and honest, stripped of the performative bravado she’s been maintaining since I arrived.

I nod, acknowledging the admission and respecting the vulnerability it has cost her. “Good. I want you to remember that as we move forward.”

She exhales, long and slow, her shoulders dropping slightly. “I still hate your rules.”

Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. I barely know this woman, yet already, I would’ve been shocked if she’d just rolled over. This assignment is going to be exhausting. I know it with absolute certainty. With how she challenges me and the way I can’t stop noticing things I shouldn’t about her, I can feel it in my bones.

The stalker will be the easy part of this assignment. Protecting Devyn Martin from herself is going to be a full-time job.

We’ve been here for three days and I’m already developing a twitch in my left eye, one that only appears when I’m actively suppressing the urge to strangle a client. Or kiss them. With Devyn Martin’s innate ability to push my buttons, the distinction between those impulses has become alarmingly blurred.

The afternoon sun beats down on the back of my neck, and sweat is beginning to soak through my black tactical shirt as I walk the perimeter of the property to check the newly installed cameras and test the motion sensors we added along the eastern fence. The landscape near the gate is showing signs of stress, and I make a mental note to adjust the irrigation schedule; dead plants will create sightline issues we hadn’t accounted for.

As I adjust the camera covering the call box, I spot Devyn emerging from the side entrance of the house, moving with a confidence that only comes from someone who has spent years being photographed from every conceivable angle. The wide-legged jeans she’s wearing sit low on her hips, the kind of cut that somehow manages to look both effortlessly casual and deliberately styled. Above them, a cropped, sage-green button-down shirt reveals a strip of her tanned, toned midriff. Chunky heels click against the paved walkway, adding four inches to her height and completely ruining her center of gravity if she needed to run.

She walks toward the garage, and I follow. I’m silent, my steps muted on the grass, my shadow stretching long behind me. She is oblivious to my approach. Of course she is. Three days under my protection and she still has no regard for the situational awareness I tried to explain during our initial security briefing. She meanders around her own property like she’s strolling through a park, completely indifferent to her surroundings, lost in whatever thoughts are occupying that beautiful, infuriating head of hers.

Devyn walks through the open garage door toward the sleek, silver coupe parked in the first bay. I recognize the model immediately—the Aston Martin DB11—and my jaw tightens. With its hand-stitched leather interior, V8 engine that purrs like a predator, and lines that belong in a museum of modern art, it’s a beautiful machine. It’s also a death trap for someone in her position.

That cute little sports car is too small and low to the ground. The tires look like they were designed for a racetrack on a dry summer’s day, not for evasive maneuvers or rough terrain. If someone wanted to force her off the road, this car would crumple like aluminum foil. If she needed to escape a threat on foot, she’d have to crawl out of it like a contortionist before attempting her getaway in four-inch heels.

She reaches into her bag—a ridiculously oversized leather tote slung over her shoulder—and produces a key fob. The car chirps and its lights flash before she pulls open the driver’s side door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” My voice cuts through the quiet of the garage. It is deeper than I intend and rougher than necessary, though its effect is immediate and deeply satisfying.

Devyn shrieks—a high, startled sound that echoes off the walls—jumping out of her skin with her hand flying to her chest as she spins around. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is in a perfect O of shock. “Jesus!” she gasps, her breathing ragged.

I step into the garage, letting the shadows swallow me as I move closer. I repeat myself, slower this time, letting each word land with deliberate weight. “I said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’”

The fear evaporates from her expression, replaced by a familiar, infuriating defiance that has become her default setting around me. Her shoulders square, and her chin lifts as she crosses her arms over her chest, which does interesting things to the cropped shirt that I am trying desperately not to focus on.

She recovers quickly, I’ll give her that.

“Shopping,” she chirps, like it’s as obvious as telling me the sky is blue.

I close the distance between us in three strides and pluck the key fob from her hand before she can react. “Like hell you are.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow into dangerous slits. “Give them back.”

I lift my arm, holding the fob above her head, well out of her reach. She’s tall—five eight, maybe five nine in those ridiculous heels—but at six four, my advantage is substantial. She makes a grab for it anyway, her body pressing against mine in her attempt, and the contact is a jolt of electricity through my sternum. She smells fucking amazing, like freshly picked flowers and coconut. The combination is intoxicating in a way that makes me want to stumble backward and step closer all at once.

“Gunnar.” Her normal velvety voice drops to a warning tone. “Give me my keys back.”

“These?” I dangle them just out of reach, watching her face flush with frustration. “These keys to the vehicle you’re not authorized to operate without an escort?”

“Authorized?” She laughs, the sound completely devoid of humor. “This is my car. My house. My life. You don’t get to tell me what I’m authorized to do.”

“I absolutely do.” I lower my arm but keep the keys firmly in my grip, tucking them into my pocket where she can’t reach them. She’s welcome to try to retrieve them, but one of us will enjoy the consequences far more than the other. “It’s literally my job to tell you what you’re authorized to do. And you’re not authorized to leave this property without notifying your security detail. And over my dead body will it be in a sports car with the structural integrity of a soda can.”

“It’s not a soda can.”

“And somehow, you’re still missing the point.”

She steps close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. She’s angry, truly angry. She glares up at me in challenge, the tiny flecks of green in her otherwise-hazel eyes sparkling like emeralds. This feisty little brat is testing me, seeing just how far she can push before I break. “I need to go shopping,” she insists, struggling to keep her tone from sounding combative. Trying and failing, but trying, nonetheless. “I have an event coming up, and I need a dress.”

“Send someone.”