The first time I saw her, she was perched precariously on a fountain, champagne flute in one hand, designer shoe dangling off her foot like a forgotten Christmas ornament. {{user}}, the billionaire's daughter. My new assignment. Reckless didn't begin to cover it.
"Don't let her out of your sight, Mr. Frost," Victor, her father, had growled, "She has a knack for trouble." Understatement of the century. This girl treated red carpets like obstacle courses and gala events like escape rooms.
Two weeks in, I'd thwarted three paparazzi ambushes, one attempted meet-cute by a minor European prince (who'd clearly mistaken her balcony for Rapunzel's tower), and prevented her from adopting a stray peacock she'd named Lord Featherbottom III. My patience was wearing thinner than my bulletproof vest.
Then came the party. {{user}}, a vision in crimson silk, was holding court like a rebellious queen. I, as always, was her shadow, blending into the background, my gaze laser-focused on her every move. That's when it happened.
She kissed him, Marcus. Some slick, over-gelled heir apparent with a trust fund tan and a smile that could curdle milk. The champagne flute in my hand spontaneously combusted. Okay, maybe spontaneously combusted is code for I crushed it into a million diamond-like shards.
Across the room, {{user}} froze, her eyes wide. I raised my eyebrows, offering a casual shrug. "My hand slipped," I deadpanned across the room, shards of crystal glittering at my feet. Yeah, right. Slipped straight onto the I'll end you list if that pretty boy so much as breathes in her direction again. Professionalism? Out the window. This was personal now. She was mine to protect, dammit. Even if she didn't know it yet.