03

RORY

The big man stops in front of us and extends a hand to my father. "Mr. Tremaine."

His voice is deep, rough and husky, and fuck, my knees tremble slightly when I hear it. 

Dad returns his handshake with a small smile on his face and gestures to me. Me, his daughter who has still not found the strength nor the will to lift her jaw off the ground and act like a human being with a working brain. 

"This is my daughter, Rory." Then to me, dad says, "Rory, this is Carter Whitlock and he's going to be your bodyguard."

The man—Carter—doesn't extend his hand to me for a handshake and even though somewhere at the back of my mind, I realise that it is rude, a huge part of me is also glad that he doesn't want to shake me because I'm not sure I will be able to get my limbs to move. 

Avery—I forgot about her for a second there—must understand what I'm going through because she jams her elbow into my side not-so-subtly and a cough flies out of my mouth.

Embarrassed because this hot man is obviously seeing me check him out, I finally slam my mouth shut. Then, deciding that I should probably say something, I say, "Hello." which is just even more embarrassing because my voice comes out all breathy and husky. 

Avery can barely control her snicker, and when I turn to my dad, I see that he's watching me with an odd look on his face. He must be so ashamed of me right now. 

Dad clears his throat. "So, as discussed, Carter is going to move into your house and go everywhere with you." He levels a pointed look at me. "I know how you get, Rory, so please make his job as easy for him as possible. If he asks you to do something, please do it. Got it?"

I don't respond to my dad because I'm too busy freaking the hell out. How did I forget that important detail? 

How did I forget that this mountain of a man whom I want nothing more than to climb right now, is going to be living with me in my house for the next three months? 

"Got it?" Dad asks again and I blink back to the present. 

"Got it." I nod. 

I'm pretty sure that Carter thinks I'm a halfwit with the way I've been acting ever since he came and I don't blame him. I've never been so tempted to slap myself and I plan on cursing myself to hell and back the moment I'm safely in my car. 

As dad discusses with Carter one last time—because apparently, he's coming home with me—Avery corners me. 

"Oh my God, Rory," she exclaims and I have to glare at her to get her to lower her voice—which doesn't make much difference, to be honest. "He's so hot, what the hell?"

"I know," I sneak a peek at him over Avery's shoulder. He has his back to me and he can't tell I'm looking at him so I feast my eyes on his tight ass, hugged firmly by his jeans. 

"I didn't even know guys like that existed," My best friend says, still eye-balling him. "If he looks like that with clothes on, imagine what he looks like without them. Fuck, I can't even—"

"He's my bodyguard, Avery," I cut her off. “So that means he's off limits."

Let it be known that Rory Tremaine is a huge hypocrite because even as the words leave my lips, I'm still staring at him, wondering if a particular organ in his body is just as huge as my hypocritical status is. 

Avery wiggles her brows. "Uh-huh. Sure." Then she opens the backdoor of my car and takes her overnight bag out. "Anyway, my ride is here. But do not fret for I shall be spamming you in the next thirty minutes, asking if you've died of the female version of blue balls just from staring at Mr Sexy over there."

I'm too queasy to laugh so instead, I hug her goodbye and wave as she enters her ride. 

Dad comes over to give me a hug and kiss on my forehead before he leaves me with the cause of my queasiness. Mr Sexy, as Avery just called him. 

When I slip into my car, I bang my head repeatedly on the steering wheel, cringing hard as I think back to the meeting with Carter. 

Why doesn't the ground just open up and swallow you when you want it to?

At least that would be bearable compared to having to face the man a few minutes from now, where I would be alone with him and unable to hide from my thoughts and the fact that I openly checked him out while he was introducing himself to me. 

God, how embarrassing. 

He's waiting for me to start driving before he follows, I can tell as much through the rearview mirror. And why wouldn't he? It's not like he knows where I live anyway. 

"Fuck my life," I mutter as I shift the car into gear and pull away from from the curb. 

Several times during the drive to my place, I find myself looking in the rearview mirror, checking just to make sure that he's following me, which is crazy because I already know he's following me. It's not like he's going to turn the car around and run as fast as he can because he caught me ogling him.

No, he's much more mature than that. More professional. Of course. 

It's me who can't be professional, and it's not entirely my fault because have you seen him? How is one expected to act professional around a man like that? 

My dad obviously has way too high expectations of me. 

Too bad I'm going to let him down. 

My house is a gift to me from my dad on my 22nd birthday. I'm almost twenty four now and it's been over a year and a half since I started living here, yet, I still admire the beauty of the two-storey building every single damn time I look at it.

I park my car in the driveway and hop out. Carter parks his car right beside mine, and taking a deep breath for composure, I turn to him, waiting for him to leave the car and walk over to me before saying, "So, um, we're here." As if that isn’t obvious. "I could give you a tour now if you'd like." 

A curt nod is all I get and I spin on my heel quickly, not wanting to look at him for long because his gorgeousness affects me and I'm still a horny mess. In fact, I plan to have a chat with my vibrator once I'm in my room with the door safely locked. 

I give him a quick tour of the house, the atmosphere awkward as hell because I'm still having one-sided conversations and those damn sunglasses are still on his face, shielding his eyes from me. 

But my torment doesn't lessen because what he lacks in speech, he makes up for in intensity. His presence behind me is huge and distracting and when we walk down the hallway, I start thinking about him taking me against the wall, which makes my nipples tighten and brush against the material of my hoodie because as luck has it, I'm not wearing a bra.  

He's big and he's hot and I've never wanted a man with such startling intensity as I want him now. But he's probably immune to my looks because his stride is loose and confident, his bearing sure and I don't even know if he's looking at me. 

Fuck.

"That's about it," I tell him when we're done—also, after showing him his room—and his head doesn't even come down completely on his nod before I walk out of there as fast as I can, hurry into my room and kick the door shut. 

I tug my leggings down my legs as I fumble for my vibrator in my drawer, then I fall back on my bed with a muttered curse.