Page 10 of My Shifty Bodyguard

“You know, you’re right. Ice cream is less fun when it’s un-adorned. I would love a caramel sundae, but only if you eat one with me,” I say to him, my mouth curving up in a grin. I know he wants a second sundae. Who wouldn’t?

At that, he heaves a martyred sigh, but he can’t hide the gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

“Since I am responsible for providing you with an enjoyable stay, I will get both of us each a sundae.”

“Do you…do you want some money for mine?” He already paid for my ice cream earlier.

That earns me a growl. “Do not ever ask me such a question again. It would be a stain of dishonor on my lineage to allow such a thing.” His eyes have a dangerous gleam in them.

Oh my wow. Why is it so incredibly hot when he sounds all threatening and dangerous?

As he stalks off to buy our sundaes, I shiver again, but not with cold. It’s a heat that all the ice cream in the shop won’t be able to cool down.

Chapter Five

Violet

The ice cream was a triumph, but it’s all downhill from there.

We return to our awkward silences. We eat an awkward dinner, sitting at the table across from each other, barely speaking.

I spend the whole night lying in Dax’s spare room, tossing and turning, replaying every moment of yesterday — the tour, the goats, the bull incident, the feel of his muscles bunching as he held me in his arms.

And the worst part? Every hour that passes, my body seems more convinced that being near him is a requirement for basic survival.

My wolf is pacing under my skin.

My heart is doing percussion solos.

I wake up at sunrise, frustrated. And I am not going to spend my vacation time – because this is a vacation! – in a mood.

If I can just get my Sexy Murder Statue to cheer up, that will make me feel better too.

And what makes everyone happy in the morning? Pancakes! They’re smiles on a platter. Drusilla and I have made pancakes together several times. She said my pancakes were delicious. I know they were a little chewy and crispy and maybe they had some black parts, but she loved them. So did my half-brothers; they ate all of them and assured me they were the best pancakes they’d ever had.

Then it seemed like whenever I wanted to make pancakes, Drusilla suggested we do something else, like sewing or painting, but I pretty much remember how we did it.

So Dax’s kitchen, not surprisingly, reflects his personality. There’s nothing pretty or fun there. It’s got gleaming metal counters, black wire shelves with glass containers labeled in neat block letters (“PASTA,” “WHITE RICE,” “BLACK RICE”), spice jars lined up in perfect formation. Absolutely not one decorative object or whimsical mug in sight. How can he live like this?

But after half an hour of hunting down all the ingredients I need, I think I’ve got this. I’m surprised Dax isn’t awake yet, so I need to move fast.

Another half hour drifts by, and hoo boy, I’m going to have a lot of cleanup to do.

Flour dusts the counter in a light snowfall. A mixing bowl lies on its side, dribbling lumpy batter onto the stovetop. One pancake has somehow adhered itself vertically to the cabinet door.

But it’s okay, I have my first pancakes cooking in a pan.

For some reason they’re smoking. Wait. What did I forget?

Is that pan non-stick? How can you tell? Should I have melted butter first?

The smoke is billowing now. The kitchen is filled with black, acrid smoke and my eyes and nostrils are stinging.

BEEEEEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The smoke alarm erupts like the kitchen is under missile attack.

“Nononono! Stop it! Be quiet!” I snatch up a dish-towel and wave it wildly at the smoke. I’m pretty sure that makes it worse.