Page 26 of Gunnar

“She’s a job,” I roughly exhale, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “Nothing more than a client.”

“She’s hot,” Jagger counters. “And for some reason, she’s into your old ass. That little finger poke? That was foreplay, my friend. She’s testing you.”

“Enough.” Hawk’s voice cracks through the kitchen like a whip, even causing Jagger to finally shut his yap. “Gunnar, you need to get your head on straight. She is Devyn Fucking Martin. Along with a stalker hunting her, she’s got paparazzi following her every move. It’s your job to protect her, not fantasize about her.”

The words land like blows, each one accurate and deserved. “I know.” I run a hand through my hair, gripping hard enough that pain rings through my scalp. “I know what my job is.”

“I know you do.” Hawk steps closer, lowering his voice even further. “But from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re more interested in something other than just being her bodyguard.”

I wish I could deny it, storm into a rage, and insist that I’m a professional. I want to believe that I am controlled and would never cross that line. Not that I shame my brothers for having done it. But the image of Devyn over my knee is burned into my brain—squirming, with her skin warm beneath my hand as I teach her a lesson she won’t soon forget. “Fuck.” The word comes out on an exhale, all the fight draining out of me.

Hawk studies me for a long moment, his expression softening to something that resembles pity. “I know you’ll do your job. I know you’ll keep her alive. I know you won’t hesitate if you’re the only thing standing between her and a bullet. But right now, she has you far more than distracted. You’re wound so tight, you’re volatile. If you can’t keep that in check, you need to keep your distance.”

I nod, because he’s right. He’s obnoxiously always right. “Distance,” I repeat, as if saying it will make it easy. “Professional. Distant.”

“Good.” Hawk claps me on the shoulder, giving it a brief brotherly squeeze. “You should probably go turn off the car, it’s still running in the driveway. And maybe”—he glances beyond the doorway to the empty staircase Devyn stormed up—“maybe give yourself a minute and let one of us go check on her.”

I tip my head again in agreement. It’s necessary. It might be the only way I can make it through this assignment without doing something stupid—something that will ruin us both. But as I walk back through the foyer, past the spot where the sweet scent of her perfume still lingers in the air, I know with certainty that distance is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to maintain.

As I step out into the night, the warm air does nothing to cool the heat simmering under my skin. The Aston Martin sits in the drive, door ajar and engine still purring. Walking toward it, I can’t stop thinking about her wide eyes glimmering with intrigue, asking the question she didn’t dare to ask.

Would you really?

Echoing through the dark places of my mind where professionalism doesn’t reach, my own traitorous answer comes hard and fast.

In a fucking heartbeat.

I wake with the sun streaming through my bedroom windows and a headache that feels like someone is tap-dancing across my skull. The sleep I managed to steal last night was fractured and unsatisfying, my dreams riddled with storm-cloud eyes and rough hands.

Okay… maybe it wasn’t entirely unsatisfying.

Half awake, I grab my phone from the nightstand. It’s barely seven in the morning and I have no less than twenty missed calls and texts.

JAKE

What kind of PR stunt is this?

Call me, Devyn.

LESLIE

Who’s the silver fox?

I click the link in her next text and immediately regret it. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I snarl, tossing the phone and hastily sliding out of bed. After throwing on a silk robe over my sleep shorts and tank top, I grab my iPad from my nightstand and shove my phone into my pocket. My body moves on autopilot, toward the scent of coffee and the sound of chatter in the kitchen. Toward the source of my anger.

All four of the men I was convinced to hire are scattered around the marble island. Hawk is nursing a mug of coffee and reading on his tablet. Damon sits beside him, his expression unreadable as his thumbs tap the screen of his phone. Jagger is leaning against the island, shoveling cereal into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a teenager, milk dripping from his spoon.

Their eyes lift to me when I storm into the room. All of them except for Gunnar. He is standing with his back to me, pouring coffee into a mug that looks comically small in his massive hands. He’s wearing gray sweatpants, slung low on his hips, and a white T-shirt that is straining across his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, but the silver at his temples catches the morning light filtering through the window.

With an iPad clutched firmly in my hand, I cross the room silently. Almost reaching him, I toss the tablet onto the countertop beside the coffee pot. It slides across the polished stone, spinning slightly before coming to rest in front of Gunnar.

“Are you fucking happy?” My voice cracks as it echoes through the room.

Gunnar doesn’t even flinch at my outburst. With an infuriating amount of calmness, he finishes pouring his coffee before setting the carafe back in its place and pivoting to face me. “Good morning to you, too.” He takes a leisurely sip of his black coffee, and when he pulls the mug back from his lips, I catch the faintest tinge of a smile. It disappears as he sets his cup on the counter. He lifts the tablet and swipes it open with a controlled patience that makes me want to scream.

The screen is a mosaic of chaos. Twenty open tabs—maybe more—each one a different shade of disaster. TMZ. People. E! Online, and every gossip columnist in LA is running variations of the same story.

Devyn Martin: From Colton Cross to Caveman