Chapter 3

Vance

"You have a lot of nerve," Bella hisses from the back seat. "You're being paid to protect me, not cock-block me!"

I smirk at her frustrated tone. Unfortunately for her, protecting her does mean blocking the cock.

"Your father said you have to be ‘pure' for your marriage. Remember?"

"I wasn't going to sleep with him. There's more to sex than P-in-V action."

I could have let her grind on that dude, but I didn't like watching her tan thighs on either side of his or the way her skirt bunched up as she danced on him. The movements of her hips caused her lips to part a bit, and her eyes had closed as she put a hand through her dark hair.

Besides that, there was too much distance for me to cross if something went south. From a service perspective, she needed to be closer to me if I had to protect her.

"I'm sorry for clam-jamming you, Bella, but I'm not taking any risks." I'm not willing to, even if she is.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "It's Isabella to you."

Guess we're back to formalities.

She pouts and sits back in her seat. I pull my eyes from the rearview mirror and force them back on the road. Isabella is much younger than me, and she's clearly acting like it. My guess is she's never had anyone tell her no before.

Such a daddy's girl.

But I'm not her father, and I won't be manipulated by her antics. She can think I'm as boring as she wants because I'm going to be boring as fuck for the next two weeks.

I'm not some square, despite what she thinks. I can have fun, and I don't care if other people have fun, but I take my job very seriously.

And right now, she's my job.

Her father would have my head if something happened to his little girl, so I have no choice but to be stern with her. It's what I'm being paid to do. It's what I'm being paid a lot to do, so she can throw as many tantrums as she wants.

We pull into the large garage after a drive accompanied by silent brooding. Cars that I've never been able to afford loom on either side of me. Lambos, Mercedes, Bentleys. Maybe I can afford one once I get paid from this gig. I'll get something that has a convertible top so I can feel the breeze in my hair.

I nearly laugh. I'd never be caught dead in a convertible. I like inconspicuous cars, and none of these are inconspicuous. People seek out people in these vehicles. No one thinks twice about a man in a Toyota Camry, that's for sure.

I pull the BMW into its spot and get out to open the door for her. Before I can touch the handle, she opens the door into me with passive-aggressive force. The metal juts into my gut. I catch it, but not before it scrapes my skin and causes pain I wasn't in the mood for.

"Oops, sorry," she says, completely unapologetic. She pushes past me as she climbs out of the car and takes off on long legs.

I exhale and slam the door. "You're being childish," I say as I follow her into her wing of the home.

She spins on her heels and raises her chest. She's speechless, though I know she's overflowing with words she'd like to say to me.

"We need ground rules," she finally says as she steps into me and puts her pointer finger against my chest.

The moment the pad of her finger jabs my sternum, I grip her wrist and twist her arm behind her back, which spins her around and immobilizes her. She squeals, not from pain but from anger.

"I agree," I snarl.

One of those ground rules is going to involve her not laying her hand on something much bigger and stronger than her.

If I didn't need money, I wouldn't even be doing this job. I wouldn't have to babysit such a mouthy, opinionated brat.

She whimpers within my hold and flails against me. Her cheeks puff with anger. She reminds me of a child fighting against the grasp of a parent who's trying to keep them from touching a hot stove or running into traffic. Instead of trying to save her life, I'm trying to preserve her innocence.

Well, in a way, that is saving her life. Her father claims to love her infinitely, but even he will find little use for her if she were impure. Love would have to be enough to keep her alive, and I'm not sure my boss is capable of loving anyone but himself and money.

"Don't touch me, little miss, because I will hurt you. And watch your pretty little mouth, too."

The heat of her body presses against me and takes my mind to a very unprofessional place. I release her before I get hard. With flushed cheeks, she turns back to me and rubs her wrist. "You can't put your hands on me." She paws around her body for her phone. "I'm calling my father."

I whip out my cell and hand it to her, and she holds the black device in her hand like it's a bomb. She's bluffing. I know she is, and I hardly know her at all. It's just that obvious.

Her cheeks blow out as she forces the phone back into my hand. Her lips tighten into a thin line, and she turns around.

I clear my throat, and she stops midstep. "I was given permission to do anything to keep you safe. That includes putting my hands on you."

"Fuck you, Vance," she snarls. "My father wouldn't have agreed to that."

"He did. Guess he knew you'd be like this. A fucking brat."

She storms off and slams her bedroom door.

As I pass her room on my way to mine, I rap on her door. "I'm not your father, Isabella. I won't let you get your way, so I suggest you find a better attitude before tomorrow."

Why do I get the feeling she won't even look for one?

This is why I like day gigs. I deal with a lot of shitty attitudes, but I get to leave them behind and go home afterward. With this job, I'm stuck with her and her attitude for the next two fucking weeks.

I can't help but wonder if it's worth the payout. We'll see.