4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

J asmine

I'm slowly working through my lunch salad while I make glacial progress reading a jargon-laden book about the trauma response. I don't know why I bother reading. My thoughts keep drifting to the fact that soon my handsome new bodyguard will move into the pod just a stone's throw away.

The construction workers finished assembling the granny pod yesterday afternoon, so it looks like I'll officially have protection when I go to work tomorrow.

I close the book and let memories from our dinner the other night play through my mind like a romantic comedy highlight reel. The way Bold's intense ice-blue eyes locked with mine. The odd combination of his real-life heroics and his bashful confusion about which spoon to use. The way his dark fur rippled over his muscular shoulders every time he moved, his leather vest, the only clothing he wore above the waist, leaving nothing to the imagination. I replay his reluctant, fang-filled grin and recall the one time he broke out of his shell to let out a deep laugh—well, half laugh, half wolf-like chuff—that made my knees weak.

Get a grip! I scold myself. Bold will be working for me. Ogling is strictly off limits, no matter how tempting those wide shoulders are or how heroic he was during his daring rescue. With a sigh, I remind myself I need to remain professional if we're to work together.

A knock at the door interrupts my efforts. Bold and my dad are on the porch wearing matching eager smiles—one of them full of sharp ivory fangs. Bold has an overstuffed duffel slung over one shoulder.

"Good afternoon, Jazz." Dad greets me warmly. "Ready to give Bold the grand tour?"

"Sure. Want coffee? Water?"

"The foreman gave me a tour last night before the crew left. I've got a video call back at the house in five minutes. Why don't you give Bold the tour?"

One minute later, I'm brewing Bold a coffee pod, trying not to blush when I catch the appreciative glances he sneaks when he thinks I'm not looking. I'm wearing a T-shirt and shorts, certainly not femme fatale material. My cheeks flush as I quickly slip on the flip-flops I keep near the front door, then lead him to the pod that's only twenty steps from my door to his.

We step into the compact but cozy living space, which is simple, spotless, and flooded with sunlight from the windows and the large skylight. I probably should have run point on the project, but somehow Dad managed to get the thing delivered and the final touches completed in less than a week.

It's fully furnished down to the masculine cobalt and fawn bedding as well as two wine glasses on the counter, as though it's a model home. Did Dad really put his interior designer on the job? For a granny pod? That's kind of endearing.

I chuckle softly. There's no granny here, though perhaps Bold is a stand-in for the big bad wolf. That thought makes my insides quiver, and not in a bad way. During our interview, he wore blue jeans and a leather vest. Today, it's black jeans and a black tee. At first, I'm bummed that it covers all that silky-looking shoulder fur, but the way the shirt hugs all those slabs of muscles makes me change my mind. He's eye candy no matter what he's wearing.

I narrate the various features of the small space, feeling like Vanna White, though I keep getting distracted by the sight of his powerful form, and the way his tail swishes behind him as he walks while sipping on his coffee. I force myself to stare out the window to keep myself from picturing what lies beneath his low-riding jeans.

"So? What do you think?"

"It's perfect, Ms. Sinclair." His ice-blue eyes are sparkling. "More than enough room for me. Since I fell to Earth, I've lived with nine other people in a space three times this size. I'll consider this my own mini-mansion."

Keeping the half-smile pasted on my face, I hope he doesn't see my shock. I'm not stupid. I'm keenly aware I was born into privilege. It's one of the reasons I gravitated to a profession where I could help others. Still, picturing ten people living in such a small space gives me a better understanding of who he is.

"Call me Jazz. It looks as though you've brought your things. Want to meet me next door tomorrow at nine? I don't have clients, but I have a ton of paperwork to catch up on at my office."

"I can't thank you both enough for this." Bold's voice is low, earnest, as his gaze captures mine. "After barely scraping by back in the Zone, this will feel like a luxury hotel. I'll be knocking at your door tomorrow morning at nine sharp."