“This is bullshit.” She flung her arms in the air.
“It’s what happens when you decide to show the world your tits,” I countered.
“One tit,” she corrected.
“Let’s aim for none for the next half a year. Now, deal with the consequences of your behavior and suck it up. You’ll have to change your ways, or your father is going to extend the contract and I’ll unleash my colleague Kent on you. Fair warning: if you think I’m a teddy bear, wait till you meet this grizzly.”
“You are the most horrific person I’ve ever met.” She bolted up from her seat. “And I want you out of my house.”
“I don’t work for you. I work for your father.”
“This is not how any of this works. It’s the twenty-first century!” She got in my face, so close I could smell her breath—peaches—and noticed that her eyes were an interesting shade of turquoise. Silver dots swirled around her irises. There was something rather innocent about her. Something that told me she wasn’t fully-baked. That the world had not tarnished her completely.
“It’s the twenty-first century, and people are still inheritably bad, and want to harm and/or use loved ones of influential people. Which is why I’m here to help,” I reminded her calmly, finishing the bird food bowl and tossing it into one of the fucking five trashcans. This woman did not mess around when it came to recycling.
“You used the wrong can!” She nearly football-tackled me on her way to the trash, picking up the bowl and throwing it into the black bin, not the green one. “Next time, rinse and dry it, then you can put it in the green one.”
“What the—”
She swaggered back to her spot behind the island, now that humanity was no longer in danger from my lack of recycling. “I thought you were going to rape me.”
She still had the Swiss knife tucked close. If nothing else, I appreciated her resourcefulness.
“Rest assured, I have no intention of ever touching you.”
I started making my way to my duffel bag at the entrance. A lot was riding on this Hallie Thorne post. I’d earned a meeting with Anthony Thorne himself from this. He said he’d meet Tom and me to discuss our company if he was satisfied with my work.
And while it was true I hadn’t left Los Angeles with sweet and fuzzy memories, Tom was right. It had been years, and I needed to get over what happened, even if it kept me up at night, every night.
I grabbed my duffel bag, about to head upstairs to unpack. A knock on the door stopped me. Hallie launched herself at it, tossing it open, revealing two LAPD officers on the threshold.
She practically pulled them inside by their uniforms.
“This is the guy!” She pointed at me with a shaky finger. “He’s trespassing. I don’t want him here. He saw me naked!”
“Who hasn’t?” I glimpsed at my watch.
The officers chuckled. Hallie’s face fell further as one of them squinted my way.
“Lockwood, that you?”
He didn’t look familiar.
“Mike.” He pointed at himself, laughing. “Mike Slayton. We went to training camp together in Huntsville?”
“Mike.” I faked a smile. I still had no clue who the guy was. “Long time no see.”
Twenty-nine years to be exact, and I haven’t the faintest clue who you are.
He walked right past her. So did his colleague. We all shook hands. Hallie looked between us, her surprised, blow-up doll face on full display.
“What are you doing here? Are you still with…？” Mike left the question hanging.
I shook my head. “Private sector now. Tom Whitfield and I went solo.”
“Whitfield!” Mike snapped his fingers. “That son of a gun. He’s always been talented. Tell me, did he end up marrying what’s her name? Laney? Lila?”
“Lisa. They have twins now. Boys.” Fuck if I even remembered their names right now. Something with an S, I was forty percent sure.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He rearranged his belt around his thick waist. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“He is forcing himself on me!” the brat roared, slipping between him and me. She was doing the weird dance thing again, where she waved her arms and jumped from side to side. I had to hand it to her—she was persistent. I’d dealt with the spawn of rich people before, and normally, they didn’t put up this much fight.
“Miss.” He swiped his eyes over her cleavage, licking his lips. “Sexual harassment is a serious allegation.”
“You might want to tell that to my face. My bra doesn’t speak English.” Her hands balled into tight fists, and I had a feeling my first assignment was to keep her from stabbing him.
“Shame.” I yawned, sauntering back to the kitchen and picking an apple from the fruit bowl. “Maybe it could’ve told you the other night to put it back in, and spare both of us this unfortunate situation.”
She whipped her head around, pinning me with a death glare. “I’ve known you for all of ten minutes and you’ve already assaulted me in my own home and insulted me like my father.”
I took a bite of the juicy apple. “Her father, former President Thorne and current owner of this residence, hired me as her close protection officer. I can call him to confirm this.”
Because I had his number on speed-dial now. Which reinforced my original point—I wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what the Thorne Princess wanted.
“No need.” Mike hiked up his belt over his belly. “This seems like a simple misunderstanding that got cleared up. Right, miss?”
“Are you kidding me?” the brat screamed. “I understand the situation perfectly. Someone is squatting in my house, and you’re taking his word he has a right to be here! Why the hell aren’t you doing something? I’m not a child making a prank call, I’m twenty-one!”
“And living off your parents’ dime.” I finished the rest of the apple. “Which brings me to my original point: abide by my rules, or lose every privilege you have.”
“That all?” Mike asked. The guy beside him was staring at the artistic nude painting of Hallie in the living room. An urge to drive my fist into his jaw slammed into me. I did not like it when women were objectified.
“Know what? I’ll deal with it myself. Thanks for nothing.” She stormed upstairs.
“You’re welcome, honey.” Evidently, Mike was not well-versed in sarcasm. He turned back to me. “So? Drinks this afternoon? I finish my shift at three o’clock.”
I opened my mouth to tell him there was no way in hell I’d intentionally spend time with him, when he got another call. He took it, sighed, then frowned.
“Looks like there was a robbery two streets down. So, drinks?”
With a cold smile, I answered, “Raincheck.”
I closed the door behind the officers and let Brat sulk in her room for a while. If this was what being a parent felt like—I was glad I’d opted out of having children.
In the meantime, I went upstairs and unpacked my bag in a burgundy-walled freak show of a guestroom, complete with neon pink lamps. The place looked like it had been decorated by a blind brothel Madame. I wondered if Anthony Thorne had ever set foot in this wasteful, five hundred-room mansion. My gut told me the answer was no.