impression of her had been.
He gave in. “You just don’t look like the type who likes the wind in her hair, that’s all.”
Ouch. Felicity inwardly winced.
“Are you kidding? I’m from California. I’ve got two words for you. Highway One.” She decided she liked throwing Officer Hamilton offtrack. He shouldn’t be judging a book by its cover—or a reporter by her business suit!
“My mother taught me never to argue with a lady.” He unhooked the extra helmet and handed it to her. “You might have to…deactivate your hair clip to get the helmet on.”
Deactivate her hair clip? Felicity wasn’t sure if she should be amused or offended. Guys were clueless about what a woman needed to accessorize! She’d worn her hair long since junior high but when she’d pursued a career traditionally dominated by men, she kept it tamed in a sedate braid or confined in a clip. There were countless times she’d been tempted to get it cut short but so far she’d never quite worked up the courage.
“I’ll be fine.” She pulled the helmet on without deactivating her hair clip, just to show him that it could be done.
Chris swung one leg over the seat and put his foot down for balance, waiting for her to get on. When he started up the bike, Felicity tapped him on the shoulder.
“I need to tell you my address.” Her voice was muffled by the face shield.
“You can tell me but I already know it. I have connections.” He grinned.
Sure he did. A central database. He probably knew her height and birth date, too. Talk about your cheat sheet….
“Ready?”
She nodded, thinking that the Ferrari looked a bit sulky as they cruised past it.
He had a speech all prepared. He’d rehearsed it while he waited for Felicity to get off work and it was a good one, dealing rationally and objectively with the reasons she should go along with the whole bodyguard decision.
Then she’d picked his motorcycle over Tim’s Ferrari.
And he just knew—like he knew that Betty’s Bakeshoppe had the best éclairs in Tennessee—that his speech wasn’t going to work on Felicity. Just when he thought he was getting a read on who she was and what made her tick, she surprised him.
His relationship with a pretty redheaded reporter was going to get complicated.
In more ways than one.
He’d pulled up Felicity’s address on the computer and decided he needed to see for himself what kind of security her apartment had. Her Davis Landing address was in a neighborhood known for its older, well-kept homes. That could either work in their favor or against it. Neighborhoods tended to look out for their own and would notice any suspicious activity, but there was also a homey, “leave your doors unlocked” mentality that could be dangerous.
He turned down her street and pulled his bike up to the curb. Felicity’s apartment was an older two-storey brick home, divided into what looked to be upper and lower apartments. He was so busy glowering at the thick bushes that flanked the front door that he didn’t realize Felicity had gotten off the motorcycle.
“Thanks for the ride, Officer Hamilton.” She pressed the helmet in his hands and headed up the sidewalk.
She was on to him.
He sprang off his bike and followed her up the sidewalk, but before he could formulate a new speech, he was suddenly speechless. The front door was propped open with an enormous purple slipper. Praise music poured out of the opening it created.
So much for security. So much for common sense.
“You live here?” He’d been hoping—no praying—she lived on the second floor. Away from a front door flanked by bushes the size of soda machines that practically shrieked, “hide behind me!”
“You tell me.” She smiled. A completely insincere smile.
Right. She was still mad that he’d looked up her stats.
“Just doing my job.” It was going to become his mantra with Felicity.
She reached down and tugged the slipper out of the door. “Stella? We’re home.”
Chris checked out the door as he followed her inside. Old. Hollow. One lock that anyone with determination and a twisted paper clip could get into.
“Hey!” An attractive woman with a curly mane of light brown hair poked her head out of the kitchen. “What’s with the we’re…”
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