“What is?”
“We go to Serendipity and get frozen hot chocolates on our birthdays,” she tells me.
“I thought your birthday was in twelve days?”
“The big party my parents are throwing is, but my actual birthday is today.”
I’m not sure why that knowledge affects me so much, but my throat tightens. “Happy Twenty-Fifth Birthday, Mer,” I say, my voice sounding a little rusty.
“Thanks. If it wasn’t for you, I might not have made it.” She stands up, then pauses. “I suppose I should be happier, huh?”
Her luscious mouth tilts in a sad, little smile and then she walks back inside, leaving me to ponder a lot more than when I first came out here.
Like her offer, which involves spending the next twelve nights in her bed. Because fuck one night only. Although, I’m not sure I’d survive. There’s a very real possibility I’d die from orgasmic bliss. But if I die in the saddle, riding a royal princess, that’s not a bad way to go.
“Fuck me,” I ground out. Am I insane for not immediately pouncing on her?
Be a fucking professional, Decker. Keep your dick in your pants where it belongs.
Easier said than done, though. The fucker is rebelling, and I don’t think either of us is going to be happy until I’m balls-deep in the princess’s sweet, tight pussy.
∞∞∞
Merritt and her friend Charity meet at the Serendipity located on the Upper East Side. I guess they have a couple of different locations, but I’ve never been to any of them. The UES is a posh residential neighborhood known for its fancyrestaurants, designer stores and wealthy residents who live in a mix of classic brownstones and luxurious high rises.
Definitely a place I never frequented when I lived here. Back then, I would’ve been noticeably out of my element. The proverbial sore thumb. Since I started working with Addie at A-Squared, however, I’ve learned to blend in and become a chameleon. Despite my size, I’m good at becoming just another face in the crowd.
We walk into the restaurant and Charity is already there. She and Merritt hug, and her attention shifts to me, eyes widening. Mer gave her a heads-up that her bodyguard would be accompanying her, so I’m not sure what she’s surprised by.
“When you said bodyguard, I wasn’t expecting Tom Hardy’s bigger, better-looking brother.” She bats her lashes at me, and Merritt tugs her toward a table, mumbling something I don’t quite catch.
I try to remember what Tom Hardy looks like and fail. Other than a handful of old Kung Fu action flicks, I don’t watch a lot of movies and much prefer reading the latest thriller or Jack Reacher book.
They start whispering furiously, and I sit down at an adjacent table, positioning myself between them and the front door. I scan the room, checking exits, looking over the other customers. Nothing appears suspicious, and I relax slightly.
I hate when people think being a bodyguard is all about the muscle. It’s not. In fact, the muscle element is just an intimidation factor. A visual cue to back the fuck off. Honestly, some of the best personal protection agents out there don’t even crack six feet. Because this job is about having a keen sense of situational awareness at all times and being able to recognizepotential threats. It’s about remaining calm and composed under pressure, making decisions quickly and being able to handle stressful situations.
Luckily, all those same qualities are necessary to be a successful fighter. And a thief. Fortunately, I thrive under pressure. It helped in the ring when I was younger. And now I love the challenge of cracking a safe. Patiently and methodically breaching that barrier when time is of the essence.
“Linc?”
I turn and meet Merritt’s questioning blue eyes. They’re so insanely pretty—bright and clear like the Mediterranean Sea—and I could happily drown in them. “Hmm?”
“Can I order you something?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She hesitates. “Okay, well, then we’ll get you a burger to go.”
When she explains to Charity that I’m working and need to remain alert, my lips twitch. She’s too damn cute.
The women chat and laugh all throughout lunch, and I settle back in my seat, watching the room, but also listening to them. When Merritt dishes about her date with Elliot the Assclown, I clench my teeth. I think Elliot just became my least favorite name. They lower their voices a few times, and I think it’s pretty obvious they’re talking about me. What they’re saying, I don’t know, but it’s interspersed with a lot of girlish laughter. Although that might have something to do with the frozen hot chocolates spiked with Irish Cream Liquor they’re downing through striped straws.
While they’re giggling about God knows what, the waitress hands me my plain cheeseburger wrapped up in a to-go box. I also ask her for the bill and discreetly pay it.
A few minutes later, they’re waving for the server when I stand and roll my shoulders back. “The bill is all set,” I tell them. “My treat, ladies.”
“Thank you!” Charity exclaims, then leans into Merritt and whispers a little too loudly, “He’s a keeper, Mer. A big, hot heartthrob. And if you don’t take advantage of all that, then I will.”
