The Mogul and the Muscle: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(11)

5





Cameron





Brandy poked her head into my office, leaning around the partially open door. She’d put on her you know you love me, don’t fire me smile. “Need something?”

I answered without looking away from the document I was reviewing on my computer screen. “A few minutes of your time, if you aren’t too busy showing the Incredible Hulk around the office.”

With a soft laugh, she came inside and shut the door behind her. “He’s not green.”

“We haven’t seen him angry yet.”

“Fair point.” She lowered herself into a chair on the opposite side of my desk.

I clicked the mouse to save and close the document, then turned my attention to Brandy. “You knew about him?”

She winced. “Emily texted last night and told me to expect him.”

“And you didn’t give me a heads-up because…”

“She said not to.”

I snorted out a laugh. “Of course she did. What do we know about him?”

“Not a lot. I looked him up after I got Emily’s text, but I didn’t find much. No social media. No mentions in news articles, at least not recent ones. He has a Florida driver’s license with a motorcycle endorsement, but that’s about it.”

I tapped my fingernails on the desk. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Emily had hired me a bodyguard. That woman was stubborn. But even if I’d been expecting a bodyguard to walk in my office this morning, nothing could have prepared me for Jude Ellis.

The man was enormous. I was five-nine with a love of high heels, so I was accustomed to looking men in the eye. But Jude? Even from across my office, he’d made me feel small. He had to be six-five, and I couldn’t even guess his weight. He had the widest shoulders I’d ever seen. And those cuffed shirtsleeves and tattoos? Holy arm porn. He looked like he could flex his biceps too hard and burst the seams of his shirt.

But his size didn’t tell the whole story. Sure, his thick tattooed arms and the way his thighs strained against his slacks made him look like most of his body’s resources had gone into building muscle. But there was a sharp intelligence in those intriguing hazel eyes.

“He’s friends with Derek Price,” Brandy said. “And you know Emily wouldn’t hire someone who wasn’t trustworthy.”

“I know.” I trusted Emily. And Derek, at least as much as I knew him. But trust didn’t come easily to me, and my ex’s stunt with the sex tape hadn’t done anything to foster my faith in humanity. “That’s not really the point. I already told her I don’t need a bodyguard. And if you say, Cameron, you were attacked in our own parking garage, I swear to god, you’re fired.”

“Cameron, you were attacked in our own parking garage.”

I flicked my wrist, like I was shooing her out. “Pack your shit and go home.”

“Fine, but if you don’t hire me back by morning, I’ll sell all your secrets to the competition.”

“Traitor.”

She shrugged. “You fired me.”

“That’s true. I have only myself to blame.” My eyes flicked to my closed door. “What’s he been doing?”

“Well, he asked for a tour, so I showed him around. He literally wanted to walk up and down every hallway. On every floor. It took forever. He looked in all the restrooms and supply closets, although I have no idea why. Then we went to the food court. I told him about the restaurants we have, but he didn’t seem interested. Or hungry. I got a latte while he wandered around and chatted with people.”

“Was he freaking everyone out?”

“You’d think, considering he looks like a pro wrestler crossed with an action hero. But he was very unobtrusive. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he made himself smaller so people wouldn’t notice him wandering around.”

That was odd. And kind of fascinating. I didn’t want to be intrigued by this man, but I couldn’t help it.

“Where is he now?”

“He went down to the lobby to talk to the security staff. Am I still fired?”

I fake-sighed. “I guess not. I can’t really live without you, so that’s a consideration.”

“As long as you realize it.” She smiled. “Do you want me to send him in when he comes back?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Brandy stood. “Oh, don’t forget—”

My office door swung open, interrupting her, and Bobby Spencer waltzed in like he owned the place.

Theoretically, he could have, if he hadn’t turned out to be an entitled brat who knew nothing about the company his father had founded.

“Cami, babe, how are you?” He was apparently trying to resurrect the Miami Vice look with a turquoise shirt, its collar popped, and linen slacks. He’d even rolled up the sleeves of his white blazer.

I chose to ignore the fact that he’d called me Cami. No one called me Cami. My grandparents—the people who’d raised me—hadn’t called me Cami. Bobby had used that nickname on and off since second grade. But whenever I called him out on it, he just used it more often.

“Knock before you come in, Bobby,” I said. “What was that, Brandy?”