Page 4

Who is he? More importantly, why is he looking for me?

"Um, sorry. Can I help you?" I ask, praying I don't sound as flustered as I feel.

"I believe I'm here to help you."

"What?"

"Morgan sent me."

My lips pull down into a frown, and then realization dawns like a truck hitting a freaking wall. Holy shit. He's the new dancer my little sister hired for my show in Houston?

My fans are going to lose their minds. Actually, I might lose mine. This man dances? Color me impressed.

"Oh!" I say when I realize he's still watching me as if he's waiting for me to say something. "Yes, of course. Well, we don't actually start rehearsing dancers until next week, but I just ordered pizza for the band. They should be here soon, so if you want to hang out, eat, and meet everyone…"

I can tell I've said something wrong before I even finish speaking. A frown shouldn't be so ridiculously beautiful, but here we are.

"Is there a problem?"

"Depends on what Morgan told you I was here for," he mutters.

"You're the new dancer she hired, right?"

He stares at me silently for a long, awkward moment, then laughs abruptly. "Oh, fuck no, I'm not."

My fans will be devastated to know they came this close to seeing this man shirtless, sweaty, and gyrating under the spotlights.

"Then why did my sister hire you?" I blurt, genuinely mystified. I mean, I'm not objecting, but last I checked, the only position open was for a male dancer since Levi broke his ankle trying to ride a mechanical bull. Apparently, it's harder than it looks.

"Your sister?" His brows furrow before he rumbles laughter again. "Of course Calamity failed to mention that your sister's name is Morgan. Jesus H. Christ."

I just stare at him, not sure if he's talking to me, himself, or the Universe. But his grumbling seems more amused than irritated, which I assume is a good thing.

"I'm Bishop Hardy. Morgan Hendrix sent me to be your bodyguard until after your big show," he says, thrusting out a calloused hand.

"Oh, that Morgan!" I cry, excited. I just met her at the gym a few weeks ago. Neither of us wanted to die on treadmills, so we blew off exercising. Turns out, having a pregnant friend be your gym buddy is an awfully convenient excuse to go shopping instead of working out.

The rest of what he just said registers a moment later. "Wait. She sent you to do what again?"

"To be your bodyguard."

I thought that's what he said.

Jesus Christ.

He must see something on my face, because he grimaces. "She didn't tell you, did she?"

"I mean, she might have mentioned something about me needing a bodyguard, but I didn't think she was serious," I mumble. She also told me she met Blaze while running from the law and bunking with a horse named Jon Bon Pony. And that she wanted to be rich enough to drive a tank around town instead of a car. I thought maybe she just needed a nap or a Snickers.

"You known her long, songbird?" Bishop asks.

"No, not very long."

He nods like that makes sense. "You really ought to learn to take her seriously," he says. "Everything she says is an admission of guilt, or a goddamn warning of things to come. She doesn't ask for permission or forgiveness. You might want to keep that in mind. It'll save you all kinds of trouble in the future."

"Wait…so she wasn't having blood sugar issues when she said she met Blaze while running from the law?"

"Nope," Bishop mutters.