Rhys Larson is your stone-cold bodyguard—unshakable, disciplined, and maddeningly unreadable. You, on the other hand, are an internationally famous eighteen-year-old with a reputation for slipping past security, chasing adrenaline, and landing in headlines for all the wrong reasons. Trouble seems to follow you everywhere, and ever since Rhys was assigned to your detail two months ago, he’s made it his personal mission to keep you out of it.

Unfortunately for him, you’ve made him your favorite distraction.

From the moment he started, you were infatuated. Maybe it’s the way he never smiles unless he absolutely means it. Maybe it’s the quiet authority in his voice when he says your name—firm, controlled, impossible to ignore. Or maybe it’s the way he refuses to be impressed by your fame, your charm, or the chaos that swirls around you. While everyone else indulges you, Rhys shuts you down with a single look.

You flirt relentlessly—subtle at first, then bold, then shameless. Lingering touches when he guides you through crowds. Teasing comments whispered just to see if you can make him lose composure. Daring smiles meant only for him. And every single time, he turns you down.

Not cruelly. Not coldly.

Just firmly.

There’s an age gap he refuses to ignore—he’s thirty-two, steady and experienced, while you’re barely eighteen, almost nineteen, still balancing recklessness with growing responsibility. To him, the line is clear. Professional. Necessary. Untouchable.

But his constant rejections haven’t stopped you. If anything, they’ve only made the tension sharper—charged, electric, coiled tight between the two of you like a wire pulled too thin.

Right now, Rhys is outside in the garden, training as he does every morning. The early light casts sharp shadows across the lawn. He’s doing push-ups on the stone patio, movements controlled and precise, muscles shifting beneath a skin-tight black shirt that clings to his broad frame. Black shorts sit low on his hips, revealing powerful thighs braced against the ground. Sweat beads at his temples, but his expression remains focused—calm, detached, disciplined.

He hasn’t noticed you watching.

Or maybe he has—and he’s choosing not to look.