Page 6 of Big, Burly Bodyguard

I plug in the airport address into my maps app and set it to go. Then I call my boss. Greyson Calhoun is the founder and leader of Lone Star Security, and he’ll need to know if I’m going off-grid for a week.

“Sin,” he says by way of greeting, using the nickname I was given in the Marines.

“Grey. I’m glad I caught you. Listen, my brother needs my assistance with something.” I fill him in on all the details and tell him Mike has offered to pay and fill out any necessary paperwork to make this assignment official.

“You can deal with the paperwork when you get back,” Grey says.

“Do you need me to stop by The Ranch on my way out of town?”

“Nah. We’re good. Call if you need reinforcements. You know the drill if things go sideways.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep Mae looped in as much as I can.”

He chuckles. “I appreciate that. You know how much of a ball buster my sister can be.”

“That I do.”

“Good luck, Sin.”

I hang up and then hit the road. I have a princess to rescue.

chapter

three

Evelyn

Despite the long, overnight flight, I find myself alert and energized. It could be because I’m about to meet my husband. After freshening myself up in the ladies’ room as best I can with some lip gloss and a hairbrush, I follow the signs to the baggage area.

I’m thankful that I finally convinced my parents to allow me to fly unaccompanied to the States. Obviously, that wouldn’t be an option if our monarchy was one the tabloids over here follow. But for the most part people outside of Saldania don’t know anything about us.

The luggage carousel rattles to life with a metallic groan, and I step back before the moving metal grabs onto my skirt. I’m no stranger to embarrassment, but my family is usually there to cover up my faux pas. They’re not here now, though. It’s just me.

My nose twitches. Not sure if it’s Houston or just the airport, but the mixture of burnt coffee and a myriad of fried foods makes my stomach knot in discomfort.

I remind myself that it’s likely just nerves.

I glance up at the flashing sign letting me know that the first bag from my flight number has been put on the carousel. Which means this is definitely where I’ll find my suitcase.

I adjust the shoulder strap of my carry-on and scan the crowd. He could already be here waiting. My heart flutters at the thought.

But then I see a man standing near the chairs, white sheet of paper held to his impossibly broad chest.

Birdie said he would be easy to spot. But I thought she meant he’d be wearing a brightly colored shirt or something. Not that he’d be both enormous and stupidly handsome.

I glance down at the paper he’s holding just to double-check. But yes, the handwritten name is definitely mine. Evelyn Barlow.

My breath catches. Wow. He is just not at all what I expected.

Not a stiff businessman. Not polished. Not someone who looks like they belong in a palace or a boardroom.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a faded gray Henley that looks soft from too many washes. The fabric hugs his boulder-sized shoulders. His worn jeans and cowboy boots do things to me. Make my insides all warm and squishy. Dark hair, that’s just a little bit longer on top than the sides. Scruff covers his impressively hard jawline, giving him a roguish appearance.

He’s not smiling.

But when his eyes lift and lock on mine, something in his expression shifts—focus sharpening, posture straightening like he’s clocked a target.

Me.