02

RORY

I can count on one hand the number of times I've been speechless in my entire life. 

It takes a lot to make me speechless and I mean a-fucking-lot. I never thought that mere seeing a person—albeit an astronomically hot and gorgeous one—would do that to me, but that's what happens to me today.

"Guy to our right is staring at you," Avery informs me and I lift my head, not bothering to be discreet as I search for the guy she's talking about. 

When I see him, I take him in, my eyes sweeping over his seated form quickly, noting how his chest puffs out like he has a balloon under his shirt and how he flashes his teeth on a grin when he sees me looking, before I look away and to Avery. 

"Not interested. You can have him,” I tell her before I take a sip of my coffee, my eyes returning to my phone. 

On one hand is my coffee and on the other, is my phone. I'm currently scrolling through my idol’s page on Picturegram, checking out her latest designs. 

If there's one thing I love doing, it's designing.

Designing beautiful, intricate gowns, bringing them to life and turning plain pieces of fabric into something more. Something beautiful. But since I've not found the courage to officially start designing yet, I've settled for drawing, making rough sketches and real ones of dresses that I'll love to create until I find the courage to do so. 

"He's sort of cute," Avery says. "Besides, it's not me he's staring at. It's you." A pause. "Oh, wait. He's staring at the both of us now. I think he wants a threesome.” I'm not looking at her, but I can tell that she gags. "Hard pass."

A laugh bubbles out of me as I finally lock my phone and set it down on the table. 

"But he's cute," I mimic her tone. 

She rolls her eyes, a small smile on her face. "Yes, but he's also young. I don't do young."

That's very much true. 

Unlike me, Avery prefers much older men. I'm talking fifteen/twenty years age gap. It's a huge loss to all the guys under thirty who are attracted to her because they do not have a chance in hell. 

It would be bearable if she was not good-looking, but no, Avery's a fucking knockout.

She's never been in a relationship as far as I know, but she goes to a sort of sex club every once in a while when she's in the mood to get her rocks off. Apparently, they wear masks or some shit like that and no-one knows who anyone is, which is perfect for Avery because she gets to fuck all the older men she wants without disclosing her identity. 

I wiggle my brows, deciding to tease her a bit. "I bet if Wolfe was younger, you'd stomp all over your rule and do him." 

"Ugh," she groans and throws her head back. "You shouldn't have mentioned his name. I had a wet dream about him last night and I'm still trying to recover."

"When do you ever not have a dream about him?"

Wolfe is Avery's dad's best friend and partner who she's had a massive crush on for over a year now. I swear, she dreams about the man every single fucking day of the week. I mean, I understand the appeal. He's hot as hell with his permanent scowl and big, ripped body—you can see the indentations through his shirt—but I've never been particularly attracted to much older guys so I really can't relate. 

"Fridays," she deadpans, expression completely serious. "Because then I've scratched the itch with another less-attractive-but-around-the-same-age older man and I can sleep peacefully."

My shoulders vibrate on a silent chuckle. Honestly, between the two of us, I don't know who's kinkier. 

Yeah, probably her. 

Nothing beats wearing a mask and fucking openly at a sex club—not that I've ever been to one. 

I press the button on the side of my phone to check if my dad has sent any messages, but there's nothing from him still. Avery sees me checking my phone and brings her probably-now-cold coffee to her lips.

"Your dad still hasn't texted you? He said he was going to be here by 8:30."

I sigh. It's 8:54 right now and he still hasn't shown up, nor has he texted to explain why. It's very unlike him, so I decide to send him a quick text, asking why he isn't here yet. 

"I've sent him a text," I tell Avery and just as I'm speaking, my phone beeps with a text from my dad saying that he ran a few minutes late and that he'll be here soon. "He says be here soon."

"Alright." Avery nods and leans back in her chair, pulling her phone out to occupy herself. 

I, too, lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest, the cap of my hoodie falling away with the movement but I don't bother to fix it.

After a week of deliberating on who the best person for the job is, my father finally settled on one of the many men in his ridiculous list. 

From what he told me, this guy is one of the best there is and has worked with a lot of celebrities—both men and women. Everybody he's ever worked with gave him five star reviews and while I haven't seen him yet, I expect him to be one of those strictly professional people. 

The reason is simple; my dad always goes for guys like that where I'm concerned. 

Whether it’s because he doesn't want me making a move on them, I don't know, but I've never been tempted so he can rest easy. 

My gaze flicks around the coffee shop, taking in the people sitting around, going about their day. I don't know why dad didn't just ask us to meet at his or my place. He called me yesterday telling me to pick a location where I would meet with the man. I suggested this shop because it wasn't far from my place and I don't want to go anywhere far when I haven't had my bath yet. 

Avery spent the night at my place so she decided to wait with me until my dad comes before she goes back to her place. Her sleepover bag is currently in my car outside. 

My phone lights up with a text and I see that it's dad telling me that he's outside. 

I turn to the glass doors at the entrance just in time to see a familiar black SUV with monochrome windows and another car pulling up behind it, and just in time for Avery to say, "Hot man's here."

Her calling my dad 'hot' should probably make me cringe, but a lot of things that should make me cringe don't, so I just laugh and grab my phone as I stand, abandoning my cold coffee. 

"Come on, let's go." I link my hand through Avery's and pull her with me as we walk out of the coffee shop.  

I don't miss the number of both male and female eyes glued to us. I wasn't joking when I said that Avery is a knockout.

She's about three inches taller than me with killer legs, a hourglass figure that has men staring helplessly whenever she passes—just like they do now—and wavy blonde hair that reaches her waist. I'm the opposite of Avery physically—a bit on the shorter side with rounder hips, slightly bigger boobs and long black hair. 

To cut it short, when we walk together, we're a sight all right. 

Dad steps out of the car and hugs me, then he hugs Avery too and ask her how her father is. Dad and Avery's father are friends, but not close ones. 

"Where's the bodyguard?" I ask him when I peer around but don't see any new faces. 

He smiles at my tone. He knows I'm not happy that I'm getting a bodyguard and he's obviously enjoying the hell out of the fact that I'm letting him get me one anyway. 

"He'll be here shortly—oh, here he is."

I turn and see that a black car is coming in our direction. It parks behind the car that followed my dad here and when the driver steps out, my mouth gapes and my jaw hits the ground as a bolt of lust hits me right in my belly. 

"That's him?" Avery asks because Lord knows I won't be able to produce words now or in the next ten thousand years to be honest, because what in the hotness am I looking at?

"Yes," Dad announces proudly, oblivious to my very public demise. "Now, he's a bit imposing, but..."

I zone out, unable to listen to what my dad is saying because I have better things to do. Namely, ogling the mountain of a man stalking—because he's not just walking—towards us. 

He's tall, around six feet five, with dark hair cropped close to his head. His lips are pressed down in a scowl and his face, my God, that face. I'm pretty sure it can cause world war III with its hard angles, chiseled jaw and high, sharp cheekbones that look sharp enough to cut.

He has on aviator sunglasses so I can't see his eyes but I'd bet my bottom dollar that they're as intense as the scowl on his face. 

He fills out his black t-shirt nicely and if I focus long enough, I'll be able to trace the lines of his six pack through his shirt. Then his legs, those muscle packed legs that eat up the space between us are at least twice the size of mine and I don't know why that makes me even hotter. 

The most important thing is that this is a man. A man I would happily let fuck me six ways to Sunday, and apparently, he's my bodyguard. 

Yay, me.