POV Noelle
My alarm is having a full-blown seizure at 8:47 AM, and honestly? Same energy.
I slam my hand down on the nightstand, missing my phone three times before finally murdering the demonic shrieking. Twenty minutes. I have exactly twenty minutes to get to Riverside Children's Shelter for tutoring.
Fuck my entire life.
I'm throwing on jeans and a Princeton sweatshirt when my phone starts buzzing like it's possessed.
"Bitch, where are you?!"
Jamie's voice could shatter reinforced glass and I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "Jesus Christ, Jamie. Indoor voice."
"Don't Jesus Christ me! I've been texting you for hours! You disappeared with Warren and I thought you were finally getting properly laid."
"I'm home."
"Boring. Tell me about the good stuff." I can practically hear him vibrating with excitement. "Is your cherry popped? Do I need to come over with a cake that says 'Cherry Popped'? Because I absolutely will, and I'll make sure it's shaped like a di—"
"Nothing good happened."
There's a long silence before he speaks again, "What do you mean nothing good happened? You left with Warren Nielsen looking like you were about to climb him like a fucking tree."
"It was a setup." The words taste like ash and betrayal. "A really fucking elaborate setup."
"Setup how? Like performance anxiety? Because honestly, guys like Warren are usually all swagger and no substance when it comes to—"
"Jamie." I cut him off before he can launch into one of his doctoral dissertations on toxic masculinity. "Warren tried to assault me. Him and his buddies. They even had cameras set up."
Dead fucking silence from his side for what felt like eternity.
And then finally: "I'm going to castrate these fuckers with a rusty spoon."
"Get in line."
I check my reflection—still look like I went ten rounds with a blender, but the kids have seen worse.
"But it's fine. I'm officially done with Warren fucking Nielsen. Should've listened to my gut instead of my daddy issues."
"Good. He was manipulative trust-fund-baby trash anyway." Jamie's voice goes from murderous to curious. "Wait, how did you get out?"
"Remember that man you were eye-fucking at the party and get cockblocked?"
"The one who made my dick rock hard and had my panties in a twist?"
"That's the one. Owen Tate, meet my new bodyguard."
Jamie's shriek nearly ruptures my eardrum. "You're fucking kidding me! Your father hired a bodyguard without telling you?"
"Just another executive decision made without consulting the person it affects most." I pause at my door. "Anyway, I have to go. The kids are waiting."
"Wait, what kids?"
"Shelter kids. I tutor on Saturdays, remember? Math and reading help for kids who've been separated from their families."
"Oh right. Your guilt-driven community service."
"It's not guilt-driven, it's—" I pause. "Okay, it's partially guilt-driven. But those kids need help, and I'm annoyingly good at explaining why X equals whatever the fuck X equals."
I hang up and take a breath. Time to face whatever fresh hell awaits me.
I open my door and immediately want to crawl back into bed.
Owen stands directly across from my doorway like some kind of well-dressed sentinel. Fresh clothes, perfect hair, looking like he stepped out of a magazine spread instead of spending his night beating up college boys.
"Going somewhere?" His voice is calm, controlled, like stalking me is just another Tuesday.
"Yes. Away from you." I lock my door and start walking toward the stairs, but he falls into step beside me like a shadow with commitment issues.
"I'll drive you then."
"I have a car."
"And I have a job to do."
"And I have a functioning brain."
"Debatable."
I stop dead in the hallway and turn to face him. "Excuse me?"
"You walked into an obvious trap last night. Your decision-making skills are questionable at best."
"Oh, fuck you." I spin around and start walking again, but faster this time. "You don't know anything about me or my life or why I make the choices I make."
"I know enough."
"You know nothing." I'm practically speed-walking now, my anger making me careless. "You're just some father's old ass friend hired to babysit me because he's too busy making money to actually parent his own daughter."
The words taste bitter, but they're true. Dad would rather pay someone else to care about my safety than actually be present in my life.
I hit the top of the grand staircase still fuming, still walking too fast, still not paying attention to where I'm going.
My foot catches the marble edge wrong, and suddenly I'm airborne.
For a split second, I see my immediate future: tumbling down two flights of stairs, probably breaking my neck in the process.
What a perfectly pathetic way to die—killed by my own anger and expensive flooring.
But then Owen's arm shoots out, catching me around the waist and pulling me back against his chest. We're pressed together for a moment, his hand splayed across my stomach, his breath warm against my ear.
"Careful," he says, and his voice is softer than I've ever heard it.
My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised it doesn't bruise my ribs. "I'm fine."
"Humor me." He guides me to sit on the top step, then crouches down and gently lifts my foot.
His hands are warm and steady as he rotates my ankle, checking for damage with the kind of precision that suggests medical training. Or combat training. Or both.
I get this weird fluttering in my stomach as his fingers brush carefully over my skin.
It's completely inappropriate and absolutely unwelcome, but there it is.
"Does this hurt?" He applies gentle pressure to the side of my foot, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that has nothing to do with pain.
"No."
"How about this?" His thumb traces along my ankle bone, and I swear to God, I can feel that touch everywhere.
"Fine. It's fine."
Owen releases my ankle and stands, but he doesn't step back. Instead, he offers me his hand to help me up, and I stare at it for a moment.
Strong fingers, callused palms, hands that know how to fix things. Hands that probably know how to do a lot more than basic first aid.
I take his hand, and the contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my system.
His grip is firm, steady, confident. The kind of hands that could probably make a woman forget her own name if he put his mind to it.
Which is a completely inappropriate thought to have about my father's friend.
But I can't help wondering how good those hands would feel if they weren't being professional. If they were touching me because he wanted to, not because he was checking for injuries.
He's still holding my hand, and I'm still letting him.
We're standing way too close, and I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes me want to lean into him.
Owen's thumb traces across my knuckles, and I swear it's not accidental. The touch is too deliberate, too careful, too fucking intimate for a bodyguard checking on his client.
"You're going to be late," he says, dropping my hand like it burned him.
The moment shatters, leaving me standing there feeling like an idiot.
"Right. The kids." I adjust my bag, trying to pretend my hands aren't shaking. "They're waiting."
"I'll drive you."
"Fine. But you're staying in the car."
Owen's smile is sharp as a blade, but there's something else in his eyes now. Something that wasn't there before.
"We'll see about that, angel."
Christ. I need therapy. Or a cold shower. Or both.