Booty Call (Forbidden Bodyguards Book 2) by Ainsley Booth Read Free Book Online Page A

No more squirming. And I’m making a therapy appointment as soon as I’m done studying.
    But I don’t look away from Scott. I watch as he glances around, then heads into the townhouse directly across from where I’m sitting.
    I feel a momentary spasm of guilt for spying, but it’s not like I sought him out. I was just sitting here, minding my own business, when whatever weirdness he’s up to just happened right in front of me.
    I’m completely legit to just sit here and see things.
    Which is why I angle my chair away from the window, turn my computer just so, and turn on the camera so I can keep watching him.
    Because I’m totally legit. Yeah, right.
    My messenger app beeps at me. My friend Corey from the pre-law group wants to know if I’m up for a breakfast study circle.

    A: Sure, what time? Can I bring…

    I look at the display counter. They have lots of muffins left, and I bet they’ll give them to me at half-price when they close in half an hour.

    A: Muffins?
    C: You can bring me muffins any time ;)
    A: Ew.
    C: Sorry. 9:30? McAllister Lounge?
    A: Sure. I gotta be done at eleven, have a family thing.
    C: Can’t make a joke here about how it pains me to be quick?
    A: You could if it would be funny. So… no.
    C: I love you
    A: I know
    C: And a Star Wars reference. You’re the perfect woman.
    A: I’m really, really not. ;)

    On the other half of the screen, the townhouse door opens, and Scott comes out.

    A: Gotta go wash my hair. See you tomorrow.

    I close out of both apps and make myself actually read my Poli Sci 407 paper. It’s good, but it could be better. I get lost here and there in pretty words, a trait I’ve inherited from both of my parents. Ever since someone in the writing lab pointed it out in first year, I’ve made it my mission to scrub all of that out of my assignments. It’s one thing for an argument to shine on its merits. It’s another to dress it up to look good, and I hate that with every fiber—
    “Alison?”
    I jerk my head up, shoving my computer a little as Scott surprises me. Didn’t he get in his car?
    Nope. He’s standing right in front of me, and he kind of takes my breath away. Kind of? Ha, more like completely. He wears a suit unlike anyone else. And I’m surrounded by suits all the time. But he’s dynamic , one minute looking like David Gandy on a GQ photo shoot, the next like the Incredible Hulk, ready to burst out of his clothes and take on the world.
    But if he’s really a monster, he keeps it under control.
    There’s no twenty-foot green rage machine here. Just a six-foot-plus man, but with a capital M.  
    Scott Mayfair is a Man, and I’m sitting here like a mute idiot, in sweatpants and a hoodie. I’m not even wearing a bra.
    And while my brain is stuttering, failing to compute all of that holy unfairness, his obviously has no problem.
    He gives me a concerned look. “What are you doing out so late?”
    Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m obviously a college student, not a fucking child.
    Clearly our last fight didn’t make a strong enough impression, and that has me more pissed than anyone else. “I don't think that's any of your business," I say, and even though I meant it to be bitchy, the ice in my voice surprises me.  
    “You don't?" He gives me a look that I can't decipher. Part judgment, maybe part derision. I don’t know. I don’t like it.
    “No, I don’t. Last I checked, you don’t work for The Horus Group anymore. And even if you did, I’m not one of their clients.”
    “You think my concern for you is professional?” His eyes glitter as he leans over. His right hand rests on the back of my chair. His thumb rubs against my shoulder and I can feel it through my sweatshirt. He puts his left hand on the table. He’s right in my face now, and the look isn’t mysterious anymore. He’s mad.
    At me.
    For studying at eleven thirty at night.
    What a fucking asshole.
    So I laugh, because I was raised by assholes. Intimidation doesn't work on me.