“Shut your pie hole,” she snorted before glancing up at him from under her long eyelashes. “Ask what?”
“I’ve employed my fair share of personal security, but not a single one has come close to your sense of style. I’m curious why a woman as beautiful as you pursued that line of work instead of something more natural, like modeling.”
Wyntir rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“I know you are and that’s the problem. I get asked that question time and time again, but I don’t know how to answer it. Why should my fashion sense be a factor in how good I am at my job?”
Stark pulled a shocked face. “It absolutely shouldn’t! Honestly, I think you should start a trend and get every other bodyguard in the city to dress like that too. Come on, I’d pay big bucks for fashion-forward security detail.”
“Right? I’ve been trying to get Charlie on board for years,” she joked. “But seriously, I’ve always just liked things that people tend to consider feminine. Having a closet full of frilly pink dresses and oversized hair ribbons didn’t stop me from beating up my bully when I was a kid, and it didn’t stop me from following my dream of protecting others.”
“Of course, it didn’t,” he said, dropping his chin into his hand so he could stare at her.
Wyntir had to be the most interesting person—no, dragon—he’d met in years. He peppered her with questions about her life growing up and learned more about her during their short dinner than he knew about most of his friends. Too bad this was all something of a game, especially to her.
After sharing one of Craig’s amazing fruit crisps, Stark paid—leaving a fifty-percent tip for the nosy waiter—and headed outside, where the paps were waiting to document their every move. Stark was ready for them and offered Wyntir his arm. She pursed her lips as if she was trying not to laugh and then tucked her hand into his crooked elbow with a passable smile.
“If we give them a small show now, they’ll leave us alone sooner,” he murmured in her ear, pretending he was whispering sweet nothings.
She giggled as if he’d said something slightly risqué and then snuggled into his body and gazed up at him like he was the sun and the moon and the stars. That wouldn’t take much to get used to, except he knew it was all for the benefit of the photographers.
Dammit.
They paused under the glowing lights outside Craig’s and struck a pose for the cameras. Wyntir’s smile nearly knocked him sideways, and he could tell by the flurry of shutter clicks that the paps felt the same. Through brute force, he managed to compose himself enough to smile alongside her, as if they were truly a couple instead of him just lusting after the stunning dragon.
“Okay, fellas,” he said amiably as the clicking died off, “I hope you got what you needed because Summer and I wouldn’t mind a little privacy so we can have a romantic walk. Are we good?”
“Yeah, thanks, Stark,” said one paparazzo he’d known for years. “Have a good night!”
The others followed his lead and began reviewing the images on their cameras while Stark pulled his arm free from Wyntir’s grasp, slipped his hand in hers, and led her away from the restaurant.
The evening breeze carried the soft fragrance of honeysuckle and jasmine growing in the yards of the homes one street over from Melrose Avenue. The sun hung at a low, lazy point in the sky, pink and orange hues streaking across the sky as it began its descent toward nighttime. She felt both beautiful and powerful in her form-fitting periwinkle-blue dress, four-inch nude heels, and a dusty pink vintage designer handbag.
No doubt it was a strange uniform for a bodyguard on the job, but the truth was that Wyntir had learned to be equally competent in combat boots and athletic gear as she was in her super-femme dresses and heels. There was no question of whether or not she could run in those shoes. The way she walked conveyed a firm sense of self-confidence and capability. In fact, she considered the heels to be just another element of protection. It sucked pretty hard to get kicked in the ballsack, and it sucked considerably harder to get kicked in the ballsack by a four-inch stiletto with all the force of a steel-hard thigh and calf muscle behind it.
She may have looked like she stepped out of the blushing bliss of a spa commercial, but Wyntir was completely prepared to leap into action at the first sign of trouble. The truth was that even though it looked for all the world like she was a wilting damsel next to a princely hero, Stark had probably never been safer in his life than while he walked at her side.
Despite her dedication, though, her heart skipped and stumbled when Stark gave her hand a squeeze as they enjoyed the evening air. He held it with such assurance. No hesitation, no fuss. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Wyntir liked it.
Lush trees and riotous bushes gave the neighborhood a semblance of quiet, even though a major thoroughfare lay just one street over. Couples strolled along here and there, doing exactly what she and Stark were doing—reveling in the magic of the evening. But their situation was different.
As a diehard girly girl, she loved getting all dolled up to go to a fancy restaurant with a handsome, charming date. But as a tough-as-nails bodyguard, she felt a little awkward. Sure, she’d gone out to dinner with clients in the past but never under the pretense of a date. It was always just business. She was guarding them, they needed to eat, and so did she. It just happened to be at the same time.
This was different, though, in just about every conceivable way—namely, the fact that Wyntir had what felt suspiciously like butterflies in her stomach. They fluttered frantically every single time Stark pointed that piercing gaze in her direction. Not annoying at all. But now that there were no visible cameras watching their every move, she could almost—almost—let herself get lost in the magic of the moment.
“So,” Stark said, his voice tight, as if he was nervous, which was ridiculous. “You’re sure Blaise is safe?”
She smiled and squeezed his hand back. “He couldn’t be any safer.”
“You think? He’s only at a sleepover at Trystin’s.”
She gave him a bemused smile. “And Thrett Lacerta is there watching over them both. Like I said, he literally could not be any safer.”
Charlie had worked with Stark’s PR guy to coordinate the evening. Knowing a father would be worried about his son, Charlie had arranged for the sleepover and had heartily approved of the idea she and Stark pretend they were in a relationship. His only requirement was that they use a fake name to avoid compromising future assignments.
“I believe you, Summer.”
She snickered. “What are you implying, that my fake name is a little on the nose?”
“Oh, no,” he said, eyes wide with false innocence. “No one could ever catch on.”
“Dick,” she said, shoving him with her shoulder but never letting go of his hand. It felt too natural, walking along under the darkening skies next to him.
“Well, I guess that answers that.”
“What?” she asked.
“I was just wondering what you thought of me. Now I know.” He sighed dramatically and put on a sad puppy face.
She couldn’t help chuckling. “Actually, you’re not at all what I expected.”