3

Saige

There was an incessant buzzing noise that had a grumble escaping me as I rolled over in bed.

“Ugh. Shut up,” I grumbled to myself, not placing the sound as it stopped, then continued again.

The sun was screaming in my bedroom, making me squeeze my eyes shut as soon as I attempted to open them.

In retrospect, those last two shots of tequila had not been a great idea.

It had been a bachelorette party. It wasn’t like I could say no.

“What?” I barked as the noise stopped and began again.

I’d been louder than I’d intended, making my dog let out a little yip of objection.

“You probably need to go potty,” I said to him without opening my eyes.

Hugh let out another yip that had me folding up in bed, arms going high up over my head.

My mascara was sticking together, desperately trying to keep my eyes closed. But after a few blinks, I looked over at Hugh, sitting there in all of his three-pound glory, his gorgeous merle fur still perfect after rolling around in bed for hours.

I was sure I was not so lucky.

“Okay. Come on, buddy,” I said as I swung my legs off of the bed.

Hugh made a mad dash for his steps, flying down them with a speed he shouldn’t have been capable of with his tiny legs.

I caught a look at myself in the mirror as I moved out of my bedroom and into the common space.

I’d been right.

I was not as lucky as Hugh.

Ilookedlike I’d had one too many tequila shots.

My pink silk sleep mask was up on my forehead, making my dark brown hair push up as well. The rest of it was all tangled.

My black liner and mascara were smeared under my eyes and what was left of my red lipstick was a violent slash across my cheek.

As I let Hugh out onto the patio with his specially designed little potty spot full of wood mulch, I lifted my ever-present phone, zooming in on my smeared lipstick, and taking a picture.

I posted it to my story.

No smear, twenty-four-hour wear, my ass. What gives @LaurieLoreCosmetics

By the time I finished posting, the damn noise started up again.

And I was finally awake enough to recognize it for what it was.

The intercom.

Someone wanted to be let up.

Had I ordered food before I passed out?

Or have an appointment? A massage? Nails?

I had no idea.

I marched over to unlock the elevator then made my way over to the kitchen, turning on my espresso machine.

I was still tamping down the grounds into the portafilter when my door slid open.

When no one greeted me, I turned to look over my shoulder to see who’d come in.

“I don’t know you,” I said, slipping the portafilter into place, then turning on the machine.

“And yet you let me in,” he said.

That was a sexy voice.

All deep and smooth.

It was the kind of voice that shivered over you.

My gaze looked over him with more interest.

And, yeah, the rest of him went with that voice.

Sexy as all hell.

He had to be around six-three or four with wide shoulders under his navy suit—decent quality, but definitely not designer. I bet if you peeled those clothes layers off of him, you would find corded muscle and washboard abs.

As for the face, well, it belonged on billboards.

Chiseled jaw, a stern brow, etched cheekbone hollows, and these deep, dark brown eyes surrounded by the kind of thick lashes I had to pay for.

“Who are you?” I asked as the smell of espresso filled the open space.

“It’s freezing in here,” he said instead of answering, his gaze moving over toward where the door to the balcony was open.

“My dog is out there,” I objected when he walked over there to close the door.

“Your dog, if you can call it that, is on the couch,” he corrected me.

“Oh, Hugh, do you want munchies?” I called, watching him fly off the couch and rush toward me, doing his little dance in a circle as I pulled one of the bags of his prepared fresh food out of the fridge, emptied it onto a plate, warmed it, then set it on the floor for him.

“There is a strange man standing in your home, and you’re not concerned.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement.

I grabbed my espresso, then went to the fridge to plop one of my coffee ice cubes into it, so I could chug it.

I hated espresso.

But my hangover wasn’t willing to wait for me to go out to get, or have someone deliver, one of my favorite mixed drinks.

“I’m assuming you are my new babysitter,” I said.

They had a look, all of them.

I had no idea where my father found them all, but they were all dressed well, with good posture, and that stern, disapproving look to them. Like it offended them on a personal level to be working for my father, like someone was forcing them to do it instead of paying them handsomely for the task.

It seemed like it didn’t matter how many of these guys I scared away, more were always at the ready.

“You could say that,” he agreed. “I’m Julius Finnegan,” he said.

“I doubt you’ll be around long enough for me to learn that,” I said, reaching for my phone on the counter as it chimed time and time again.

New message from LaurieLoreCosmetics.

That sounded about right. Nothing got the attention of a company faster than a subpar review from someone with a few million followers.

I decided to let them sweat that, checking the comments on my most recent selfie from the night before.

It was all normal stuff. Both love and hate. Nothing strange.

Until my eyes found those two words that had my stomach dropping.

My dove.

I had a whole-body reaction to those words, my body stiffening as I clicked over to the poster’s profile.

There was no personal information, as usual. Just reposts of all of my posts with his own long, rambling diatribe about how I needed to stop ignoring him, how I didn’t know how good he could be for me.

Blah blah fucking blah.

I blocked that account, fully aware that doing so was like beheading a hydra. But I figured this would at least make his life more difficult.

“Are you listening?” the bodyguard asked, making me glance up from under my lashes.

“No,” I admitted. I hadn’t even been aware he’d been speaking.

It wasn’t rudeness on my part, per se. It was just that anytime I saw those words—my dove—it created this ringing in my ears that drowned out everything else.

“Charming,” he scowled.

“Your room is down the hall,” I said, waving toward the hall I’d just emerged from. There were only two bedrooms. Originally, there had been three, but I’d taken one over as a walk-in closet. It wasn’t like I needed guest space. No one stayed over.

When I looked up again, I saw the bodyguard glancing around the open space.

There wasn’t much in life I loved quite as much as my penthouse.

While the floor-to-ceiling windows were tinted to keep too much heat out, they still managed to soak the place in sunshine.

It was a verywhitespace. White paint on the walls, white fireplace, white-washed hardwood floors, off-white sofas around my glossy, round, ash wood coffee table.

There was a white dining table and chairs that separated the living and kitchen.

The kitchen was all white cabinets and quartz countertops.

It wasn’t everyone’s thing, but I found the white to be clean and comforting.

I couldn’t help but wonder, though, what this man thought as he looked at it.

Cold. Sterile.

I’d heard those things more than a few times in the past.

Whatever.

It wasn’t their house.

It wouldn’t be his for long, either.

No one ever lasted. There was no reason to believe this one would.

I waited for him to disappear, then made my way down the hall as well.

My bedroom continued the white aesthetic. My king-sized bed was white and tufted, the bedsheets off-white linen, even the carpet was mostly white with a light tan pattern.

Moving through my room into my bathroom, I found more quartz, a massive soaking tub, and a walk-in shower.

Walking in front of the mirror, I yanked off my sleep mask, then reached for my makeup wipes, cleaning up the mess of my liner, mascara, and lipstick. Finished with that, I ran a brush through my tangles before pulling my hair up and away from my face.

I just wanted to go get some good coffee.

But I’d already missed my nighttime skincare routine, so I took the extra five minutes to get my morning one done, leaving my skin dewy and fresh looking. You’d never know I’d spent the night dehydrating myself.

I brushed my teeth then went into my closet to grab an outfit.

There was no choice to just throw on yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Not when I was leaving the house. Not when every private citizen was now practically a paparazzo, snapping pictures, dragging you in the caption, then shamelessly tagging you when you looked the slightest bit less put-together than usual.

I still cringed when I remembered the pictures someone had snapped of me as a teenager, right after I’d walked in on my boyfriend cheating on me. Makeup running, nose red, eyes puffy.

I never let myself slip in public like that again.

No true emotions, no matter how shitty I was feeling.

I opted for a pair of on-trend loose leg clean denim—cut-outs are out this year,claimed all the experts—and paired it with a bright pop of pink sweater—Barbiecore is still all the rage—before grabbing a pair of ballet flats. I grumbled as I slipped them on. I was a heel girl. But heels, apparently, were also out.

I reminded myself that it was still okay to wear heels on a night out. It was just a fashion-no to wear them during the day now.

Finished, I grabbed my wallet and key, then scooped up Hugh, and made my way out of the door.

I was only maybe halfway down the street when I heard my name being called out.

I ignored that.

It wasn’t uncommon for someone to call out to me, but I didn’t feel under any obligation to turn around and walk back to someone on the street. If they were ahead of me or next to me or something, that was different. But I was trying to remind myself that I didn’t owe them backtracking time.

Not two minutes later though, I felt a strong hand close around my upper arm, pulling me to a stop.

“The fuck are you doing?” that deep, sexy voice growled at me.

He had a good growl, too.

“Going to get coffee,” I said, trying to yank my arm away, but his hand only gripped me tighter.

“I need to be with you,” he insisted.

“That’s not my problem,” I said, yanking away a little harder this time.

I think the only reason he released me was because it was a crowded street, and some people were looking.

“It’s your job to keep your eye on me. So… do your job,” I said, then turned and started walking again.

Bitchy?

Yes.

Did he deserve it?

Probably not.

I was just resentful about having these never-ending babysitters. It seemed like as soon as I got rid of one, a new one popped back up. I didn’t think I ever got longer than two or three days between them.

It was like I’d never left home, like I was still a damn child.

The thing was, I couldn’t exactly put my foot down, and insist they leave my house, my life. Because if I did that, my father would financially cut me off. It was his trust. He could change the terms on a whim.

Sure, I did earn my own money. And by many people’s standards, it was a lot of money.