Defending Her Dignity (Renegade Love Bodyguard Novel Book 3) Page 5

  Steve’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Damn. That dime is a nanny? Will you consider adopting me?”

  I roll my eyes and grab the pizza out of Steve’s hands. “Goodbye Steve.”

  Steve shakes his head, a sad look on his face. “Right, see you next week, Mr. Monroe.” He turns and as he walks away, I hear him mutter, “What a shame.”

  I close the door with my foot to find an amused Yael standing behind the door. She bites back a smile as she grabs the pizza out of my hands, walking back toward the kitchen.

  Isabel is already waiting, plate in hand. When she sees Yael, her eyes light up and she drops her plate back down on the counter as she rushes over to Yael and wraps her arms around her waist.

  “Yael, we’re going to watch The Karate Kid tonight and I want you to show me how to fight!” She bats her eyelashes as she looks up at Yael—it’s her signature move, one that gets me to agree to whatever she has up her sleeve in a second. And when Yael smiles down at her, it’s obvious Isabel’s charm isn’t lost on her either.

  “Of course, little fighter,” she says as she nuzzles the top of Isabel’s blonde hair.

  I open the pizza box and peel off a slice for Isabel, who promptly runs toward the living room with her plate.

  “I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian or dieting, or whatever, so I got a salad if you want it,” I offer, awkwardly gesturing to the sad-looking, wilted salad in the plastic take-out box.

  Yael rolls her dark eyes at me, a look that I am guessing I should accustom myself to, seeing as she’s already done it at least half a dozen times in the two short hours she’s been here. Without replying, she takes three slices of pizza and piles them on her plate before turning around and following Isabel toward the living room.

  “Message received,” I mutter as I trail behind her.

  The minute Isabel sees me step inside the living room, she grabs the remote and starts the movie. Yael is sitting on the same long sectional as Isabel, her legs tucked underneath her as she bites into her pizza.

  I look around the room and settle on the smaller couch next to the girls. There’s more than enough room for me next to Yael, but judging from her icy demeanor, and the fact that I’m pretty sure she could kick my ass one-handed, I think the wise choice is to give her some space.

  And like clockwork, when the training montage comes onto the screen, Isabel jumps from the couch and mimics the karate, adding extra “hiyahs!” for emphasis. I sneak a look at Yael, who is biting back a laugh. She drops her empty plate onto the end table and jumps up next to Isabel. She adjusts Isabel’s hands, holding them up close to her face. “Remember, little fighter, keep your hands up. You need to protect the face.”

  Yael holds up her hands and Isabel quickly follows suit. Together, they count out a series of punches with Yael fixing Isabel’s form, a proud smile on her face. As I watch the two of them together, I feel a huge weight lift off my shoulders. For years it has been a struggle supporting Isabel on my own. Having to be both father and mother while working full-time is difficult. It doesn’t help that every nanny I had tried to hire would leave in tears after a few short weeks with Isabel. While she was an angel with me, I knew that she could torture her nannies with her outbursts and elaborate pranks that would inevitably send each one of them packing. But seeing her here with Yael, a beaming smile on her face, renews a spark of hope in me. Could Yael be the one to finally tame Isabel? But what would happen when she would inevitably need to leave? Oded had told me that her plans were to join my sister, Daphni, on her next arena tour. No way would she want to stay on and play house here with me and Isabel.

  Woah, slow down there. I can’t get too ahead of myself. It’s only her first night here and I need to drop these expectations. Yael is here to watch over Isabel for a few weeks, keep her safe, and then she’s gone. No good will come from getting too attached.

  But as I watch the two of them together and the smiles on both their faces, I can’t help but feel a pull of longing deep within me. A longing for something that, truthfully, I hadn’t even realized I wanted. Maybe it’s time I consider putting myself back out there. My sisters had been trying to set me up for years now and I always brushed them off, never wanting to waste the time or energy on something I had long given up on. But maybe this was my sign from the universe that I needed to open a new chapter in my life and give love—or at least, dating—another chance.

  8

  Yael

  A soft moan escapes from my mouth as lips brush against my neck. Strong arms circle around my body, pulling me close. Every hard edge comes into contact with my body. I’m overwhelmed, overpowered. But it doesn’t scare me, it only makes me want more. I can feel his muscles rippling with tension against my skin. I open my legs and press my warm center against his cock, hard and ready for me. The instant he feels my heat, he lets out a possessive growl in my ear and throws me down on the bed. Standing over me, his face is covered in dark shadows. His body is all I can see: the contours of his chest, and abs that catch the soft light of the burning candles, his narrow hips that reveal a soft curl of hair leading down to his rigid cock, ready to slide inside me, to own me.

  “Please, fuck me,” I whimper, barely recognizing the desperation in my voice.

  He lets out a satisfying grunt. “I knew you would beg for this, Yael.”

  At the sound of his voice, I let out a shriek. His voice was the last voice I heard before falling asleep and even in my dreams, I swear I can hear the hints of entitlement laced within his deep baritone. My eyes shoot open and I kick off the sheets, desperate to wake myself from this fantasy-turned-nightmare.

  I land with a loud thump onto the floor beneath me. While the fall hurts, it does the job, and I’m now fully awake. With a groan, I stumble up to a standing position and rub my hands over my face. My skin is tingling with need and I hate my body for betraying me. The last thing I want in this world is to have a freaking sex dream about Lawrence. Even though I’ve only known him one day, he’s quickly made his way to my shit list on first impressions alone, and having dreams of his giant, throbbing cock have skyrocketed him to the top of that list. God, I need to get laid. Badly.

  And I also desperately need a shower. A cold one. I cannot be thinking of Lawrence—my boss—like that. I need to keep my head down, play nanny for a few months, prove myself, and get Lawrence to recommend me to his sister.

  I make my way into the bathroom and spend more time learning how to use the complicated shower than I do in the damn thing. Luckily, the cold water has the intended effect, and finally I feel my body simmer down. Once dry, I dress in my usual uniform of dark jeans, black boots, and a plain white V-neck T-shirt. I throw my hair into a big pile at the top of my head before wandering downstairs to grab some coffee so I can start functioning. It’s Sunday, and a quick glance at Isabel’s schedule shows me that the only plans for her today are to practice for her ballet performance. It’s in stark contrast to the rest of her week, which is packed full of school, extracurriculars, and play dates. This girl has a schedule as complicated and busy as the damn president’s. She even has scheduled periods of “free time” and “play time.” Lawrence told me that her previous nanny had organized the elaborate schedule, and though I’ve only known Isabel for a short time, I can’t imagine someone as joyful and full of life as she is enjoys being so regimented. And besides, having a consistent, predictable routine was the easiest way to give this asshole who tried to grab her a second chance. We were going to need to shake things up a bit.

  In the kitchen I spot a coffeemaker, and while at first glance it looks easy enough, I can’t figure out how to make a damn cup of coffee. I can find the power button, but everything else is beyond me. I dig my phone out of my back pocket and quickly Google the machine, hoping to find some instructions on how to use it online. Instead all I find is that it’s a hefty seven hundred dollars and is a favorite of both Beyoncé and Oprah. I wisely decide not to bother trying to understand how to use it, since bre
aking this one coffee machine would quite literally empty my entire bank account. So, I open up different cabinets in hopes of finding some instant coffee that I can manage not to mess up.

  I let out a groan of frustration when I can’t find anything, especially since I can already feel a headache coming on. I’ve been addicted to coffee since I was thirteen and forced to wake up at four thirty in the morning for ten-mile runs before school. Not having my morning coffee is not a good way to start my first real day on the job.

  I jump with a loud squeal when I hear the coffee machine buzz to life and start grinding the coffee beans in its lid. I look around the large kitchen, expecting to find someone pointing a remote to turn it on, but the kitchen is empty. I cautiously approach the humming coffee maker.

  “How the hell?” I mutter out loud.

  “It’s on a timer.”

  I feel my heart stop as I spin around to find Lawrence leaning casually in the doorframe of the kitchen. He’s dressed in dark jeans, with a simple white button-down tucked into the waistband. He has on a pair of black-framed glasses that somehow only manage to make him even better looking. It’s not fair. His amused green eyes watch me, and I feel my cheeks heat as I remember the image of him, poised above me ready to slide inside me, from my very unwanted and involuntary fantasy this morning.

  I quickly tear my eyes away from him, worried that if I continue to stare, he’ll be able to read every dirty thought in my head.

  “Right,” I mumble, embarrassed I hadn’t realized that the stupid machine obviously hadn’t become self-aware and turned itself on.

  Lawrence steps into the kitchen and pulls two mugs from the cabinet above the machine. “How do you take it?”

  I eye him suspiciously, unsure of how to take this more casual and laid back version of Lawrence. “No cream, six sugars,” I finally respond.

  To his credit, he doesn’t make any comments on what I know is a ridiculous coffee order. It’s basically just sugar in a cup. He simply pours the carafe of hot coffee, now ready, into the two waiting mugs. Next, he pulls out a jar and dumps six sugar cubes into my coffee before sticking a small spoon in the cup and sliding it down the counter toward me. He pours himself a cup next: black, no cream, no sugar. I should have guessed he would be the type to enjoy boring, bitter coffee.

  “You look well rested,” Lawrence remarks as his eyes flicker over me.

  My body feels hot under his assessment and I feel my heart stop in momentary panic. Did he know about my dream?

  I shake the ridiculous thought from my head and shrug my shoulders. “I slept well.”

  Lawrence quirks his brow as he watches me, and I feel my cheeks heat. Forcing myself to look away, I turn my head, suddenly fascinated by the window overlooking the expansive deck and pool outside.

  “Right, so I usually work a bit on Sundays and try to do something with Isabel in the afternoon,” Lawrence says, drawing my attention back to him. “Work is a little…busier than usual, so I may be tied up a bit. But if you and Isabel want to do something, she loves the park and it’s a great day to go.”

  I nod before taking another long sip from my coffee cup, the caffeine finally setting in and helping me feel like a human again. “I will do that.”

  Lawrence smiles, and I have to stop myself from melting like a besotted school girl. He’s just so…pretty.

  “I left important numbers, including my cell, on a notepad here for you. I also sent you an email with Isabel’s schedule for the week.”

  “About that,” I say, remembering my earlier thoughts. “We need to change some things up.”

  “Change some things up?”

  “The schedule is too predictable,” I explain. “She has the same appointments every week at the same time and the same place. It makes her an easy target. Also, does she really need all these extracurriculars?”

  “Does she need them?” he asks, his confusion evident on his face.

  “She’s ten years old. Does she need to be doing ballet and viola lessons and Latin tutoring and…?”

  Lawrence holds up a hand. “Okay. I got it. She doesn’t need to do all those things, but she enjoys them.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  At the sound of Isabel’s voice, we both turn to look and find her standing in the doorframe to the kitchen, still dressed in her PJs.

  Lawrence puts his mug down on the counter and walks toward Isabel. “What do you mean you don’t?”

  Isabel looks up at her dad, her blue eyes revealing a hint of worry and anxious energy. She plays with a stray ringlet of hair as she looks up at her father. I easily recognize the expression on her face: she’s afraid to hurt his feelings. The whole sight unexpectedly resurfaces my own dormant memories of the countless times I had looked at my own father with that same hesitant expression. I had always been too afraid to tell him how I really felt, too worried I would fall out of his favor. At least the minimal attention he gave me was better than nothing. I feel a pang of worry hit me as I watch Isabel and Lawrence. What if he can’t see how vulnerable she is in this moment? How scared she is to disappoint him?

  “Dad, I know you want me to try everything and learn about everything, but all I really want to do is learn karate.” She nervously bites her lip before continuing. “I don’t like ballet. I’m not good at viola or the piano and I can’t sing. And Dad,” she continues with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Latin is really boring. I sort of like playing chess, but I don’t want to keep taking lessons and playing in tournaments. All I really want to do is to become a black belt.” Her blue eyes dart to me, and a small smile curls at her lips. “Like Yael.”

  Lawrence lets out a long sigh. “How come you never told me any of this?”

  Twirling a blonde curl in her fingers, Isabel shrugs. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Or disappoint you,” she adds quietly.

  While I watch the concern and worry cross Isabel’s face, memories from my own childhood continue to keep flooding back. A crystal clear memory of me returning one day from the market, plastic bags filled with food strung along my arms comes rushing into my mind. I had spent the last two hours in the local market, haggling over the price of lamb and inhaling the fragrant aroma of the mix of Cardamom, paprika and turmeric packed in tight burlap bags. Earlier that day, I had found an old cookbook tucked away in a forgotten box in the hall closet. I had opened it to find the columns filled with neat cursive and had instantly recognized the familiar loops and curls of my mother’s handwriting. It had been her cookbook. And one page, a Moroccan lamb tagine of lemon, pimiento olives and a rich tomato sauce, had the corner folded down, marking it as her favorite. And it had been. With just the memory alone, I can conjure back the smell of the distinct blend of spices wafting through the house as my mother would hum, a large wooden spoon in her hand as she lifted a taste to her mouth, her eyes fluttering closed as the flavorful broth traveled down her throat.

  And when I had found the cookbook, and the recipe, I had been so excited. I wanted to make my mother’s favorite dish again. I thought my father would be so pleased. Even though it had been years since she had passed, it still had felt like yesterday. We had both still been so raw.

  So when I walked into the house to find my father, I had been excited to tell him of my discovery, and my plan to make this dish. Before I could even open my mouth, he had risen from his seat, an accusatory look on his face.

  “Why weren’t you at your krav maga lessons?” he had asked me, and I had instantly shrunken at the anger in his voice.

  “I wanted to go to the market,” I said, my voice coming out weak and soft.

  “What is all this?” he had asked, noticing all the bags in my hands.

  “I found mom’s old cookbook this morning so I went to the market to buy the ingredients to make her lamb tagine,” I had replied, my voice growing softer and meeker with each word.

  I still remember the dark shadows that crossed over his face as soon as the words had left my mouth. Instantaneously, he h
ad transformed. Grabbing the bags from me, he had unceremoniously dumped all the contents in the trash.

  “This is a waste of your time. You need to focus on your studies and your physical training. Your form is weak and your fitness is lacking.”

  “Abba! I want to cook – ”

  “Enough! You don’t need to cook. You need to learn how to fight and take care of yourself. I don’t want to hear about this, or that… cookbook again.”

  And with those words, he had stormed out of the room. I still remember the hopelessness I had felt at his words. How I had felt so angry and so sad. I had wanted to cook, to resurrect just a small memory of my mother. And instead, I had been told to go practice krav maga. After that day, I had avoided the kitchen almost as much as I avoided my own father.

  And now, as I watch Isabel, twirling her blonde curl in her fingers, I feel a wave of protectiveness rush over me. I don’t want her to feel how I did, to carry that ache of sadness in her stomach with her forever. I don’t want her to feel like she isn’t enough to be loved by her father.

  But as I watch Lawrence’s expression change, softening into a smile as he crouches in front of his daughter, I feel the tense muscles in my body start to relax.

  “Kiddo, you could never disappoint me,” he says as he wraps his arms around Isabel, pulling her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry I put too much on your plate.”

  I’m surprised to feel tears brimming in my eyes as I watch the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms. No one in the world, least of all me, would ever mistake me for being sentimental or affectionate. But the two of them, being honest and open with each other, unexpectedly makes me emotional. I had spent so many years wishing I could have a relationship like this with my own father. I had assumed Lawrence was no different—a man too preoccupied by work to even notice his daughter. But as I watch the two of them, I can’t help but wonder: had I misjudged Lawrence?