teenager out of school for the summer and with way too much time on his or her hands. It wouldn’t be a first. Her mother, Lila, had been a politician since Bailey was a kid, so Bailey had gotten used to taunts and behind-the-back gossip.
The slashed tires, however, were a first.
She took a deep breath, retrieved her purse and got out of her silver BMW, complete with four new tires. She’d outright rejected her mother’s suggestion that she carry a gun. Yes, this was Texas, and the stereotype was that all Texans were armed, but Bailey didn’t want a weapon in Cradles to Crayons. The children came first.
But she did grab her umbrella from the backseat. Not because it looked like rain. No. Only because she felt safer with something in her hand.
That didn’t make her feel better though.
Bailey forced herself to act as she normally would. She didn’t hurry toward the back entrance, her usual path to the red two-story building that was just as much home as her house was. She loved everything about the place even though she’d put it through major renovations when six years ago she’d converted it from the 1920s schoolhouse to the bright welcoming building it was now.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she opened the white picket gate that led to the playground, and it made a creaking noise. It was a sound right out of a horror movie.
“I’m not scared of you!” she snarled, but she immediately hated the outburst as much as the stupid purple umbrella she’d brought as a pseudo weapon. This person was no doubt laughing about how uneasy she was.
Cursing her Chicken Little reaction, she rounded the corner and smacked right into someone.
A man.
He was as hard as the wall, and the impact knocked both her purse and umbrella to the ground. Her face literally landed against the man’s neck, and she was suddenly tangled up in his beefy arms.
A scream bubbled in her throat, but before Bailey could even make a sound, he shoved his hand over her mouth.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said.
Bailey didn’t believe him. She turned, rammed her elbow into his stomach and started to run. She made it exactly one step before he latched onto her again.
“I said I won’t hurt you!” he repeated.
Maybe. Maybe not. She tried to elbow him again, but he only tightened his grip and whirled her around to face him.
“Hell, no one said you’d be violent,” he grumbled.
“Me, violent? I’m not the one doing the assaulting here!” But she rethought that. He wasn’t making any attempt to hit her. She cursed that creaking gate and her heightened anxiety. “Sorry, violence isn’t usually my first response.”
“I would have never guessed that.” The snarkiness in his voice made her look at his face.
She had to look up to see his face. Since she was five-nine, she didn’t have to do that very often, but this guy was at least a half a foot taller than she was, and he was built like a Dallas Cowboys linebacker.
Black hair, cut short and efficient. Blue-gray eyes that were narrowed, intense. Dangerous, too, especially since he was wincing in pain—probably from her elbow jab.
Bailey suddenly wished she’d taken her mother’s advice about that gun.
“Who are you?” she demanded. Too bad her voice cracked a little when she wanted nothing more than to sound like a woman who could take care of herself.
Since they were chest-to-chest, she wiggled out of his grip to put some much needed space between them, and she repeated her question. “I asked who are you?”
“Parker McKenna.” And he said it as if that might mean something to her.
Actually, it did. She’d heard people mention the new guy who’d recently moved to town. This was the first she’d actually seen of him, though.
Bailey combed her gaze over him. Jeans, black T-shirt and cowboy boots. Not exactly unusual attire for Freedom, but he was somehow memorable in those unmemorable clothes. No. If she’d seen him before, she would have remembered.
She wiggled some more, creating some very uncomfortable body contact between them, but he finally let go of her. Well, sort of. When she started to bolt, he put her back against the wall and got right in her face.
“You need to listen,” he insisted.
They stood there, glaring at each other. Him, still wincing a bit. Her, with her breath and heartbeat going like crazy.
Because she was so close, actually touching him, Bailey saw the moment that it registered in his eyes. She was a woman. And he became aware that her breasts were squished against his rock-hard chest.
And other things were touching, too.
He stepped way back.
“I am listening,” she assured him, and she used some snark, too. “And what I want to hear are some answers. What are you doing here?”
“Watching you,” he readily admitted.
Bailey was certain her mouth dropped open. “You’re my stalker?”
That earned her a huff and eye roll. “Not even close. I work for Corps Security and Investigations.”
She shook her head, wondering what that explanation had to do with her, but then everything inside her went still. “Bart Bellows owns Corps Security,” Bailey mumbled. A billionaire businessman who also happened to be her mother’s old friend.
Oh, no.
This better not be happening.
“What are you doing here?” Bailey repeated.
“Guarding you,” he said in an isn’t-it-obvious tone.
Sheesh.
Yes, it was happening.
It took Bailey a moment to get control of her temper. “My mother hired you.”
“Technically, she asked Bart to hire someone, and he hired me. I was in the army for over a decade, and I have a lot of experience protecting people.”
She didn’t doubt that for a moment. Parker McKenna was big, strong and could probably beat anyone in a hand-to-hand combat situation.
Or chest-to-chest.
He was also drop-dead hot, but Bailey cursed herself for noticing that. He might be attractive—sizzling, even—but it was a waste of time for him to be here.
“I don’t need or want a bodyguard,” she stated as clearly as she could.
“Excuse me?”
How could those two little words make her sound like a fool?
“Someone slashed your tires.”
“Yes.
