I’m in the middle of a design meeting about my upcoming nail polish line when Julie comes whirling into the room, panting.
“Textured lids on the bottles can really help with accessibility,” my product designer is explaining. “If we use a glossy plastic lid for the regular polishes, and a matte finish for the mattes, visually impaired users will be able to identify the products they want a lot more easily.”
“Great. Let’s do that, then,” I murmur, turning my fingernails under the light. The shade I’m wearing right now is British Bitch; a blood-red colour, full of flecks of crimson glitter. We’re currently in the product testing phase, and I have a slightly different formula of the shade on every one of my fingers.
“What’s the point in that?” Julie asks loudly. “Why would blind people paint their nails?”
“Aren’t PR people supposed to be politically correct?” I wonder, as she saunters into the room.
She snorts. “I’m supposed to keep you in the headlines, babe. That’s it.” She drapes her fur coat on the back of a chair and sits down opposite me.
I glare at her. “Didn’t you hear? You’re fired.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that.” She reaches across the table, picking up a bottle of Stiletto. It’s a black varnish, glossy like patent leather. “Babe, are you going through a goth phase? You know pink is your signature colour.”
I am a big fan of pink. What can I say? I take my style inspiration from fashion’s three biggest icons: Paris Hilton, Sharpay Evans, and Elle Woods. I glance around my office, taking in the pots of pink fluffy pens, the pink marble floor, the pink crystal chandelier hanging over my head. Hell, my house is like Barbie’s Dreamhouse.
But no one wants to be cute and girly all the time. I’m sure even Barbie sometimes wanted to dress like an assassin about to kill a man.
“What do you want, Julie?”
She rummages through her Gucci purse and slams a thin file on the table. I recognise it immediately. It’s the folder of information I’ve collected about the break-in. I don’t have much: some photographs of my broken window, the police report, and the terrifying Polaroid. My heart starts to beat faster. “Why do you have that?” I’m sure I left it in my bedroom.
“I’ve solved your security problem,” she announces triumphantly.
I grit my teeth. “I told you. I’ll find new security myself. I—”
A man’s voice suddenly rumbles through the office wall, and I freeze, listening. Footsteps move across the living room next door, and there’s the sound of someone tapping on the wall.
Fear washes over me in a wave. The walls of the room seem to close in on me, squeezing all of the air out. “Who the Hell is in my house?” I whisper.
“I swear that these guys are good,” Julie promises. “They’re ex-SAS soldiers. You don’t get better training than that. I heard Kylie Jenner used them for her last trip to Paris.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “People in the business call them The Angels.”
I stare at her. “Are they a boy band?”
“Like guardian angels, I guess.” She shrugs. “They’re in the living room. Waiting for you. Three of them!”
I close my eyes. “You invited three soldiers to my house,” I say slowly. “Without asking me. After a strange man broke into my bedroom. And you didn’t think that might upset me in any way.”
She stands up, smiling brightly. “Yep. Come on, then. They’re already getting fussy. I don’t think they like being kept waiting.” She waves away my product designer. “You can go now. Briar has an appointment she needs to attend.”
The woman blinks at me, surprised to be so suddenly dismissed. I sigh, getting out of my seat. As much as I feel bad about cutting our meeting short, I really don’t like the thought of leaving those men alone in my house. “We’re pretty much done here, right, Sarah?”
“Well, yes, I suppose.” She frowns. “We still haven’t talked about the embossed lid names—”
I wince, guilt plucking at me. Sarah’s one of the best in the business; she flew in from Paris to be here. “I’m sorry. I trust your judgement. Pick whatever you think is best, I’ll approve it by email. Thank you so much for coming all the way out here, I really appreciate it.” An idea crosses my mind. “Oh! Do you want to come to the premiere of my new movie? It’s a murder mystery called Players, it releases in a couple weeks.” I pull out my phone, already tapping out an email to my agent. “I’ll be flying to America for the LA premiere, but there’s going to be a big event here in London, too. I can get you a couple tickets?”
Her eyes widen. “I would love that,” she says slowly. “I’ve seen the posters everywhere.”
“Great. My agent will send them right over. Thanks again.”
I toss her one last smile, then Julie grabs my hand and pulls me out of the room. “Come on,” she mutters. “I don’t want them to get fed up and leave.”
I yank my hand free, turning on her. “Julie, what the Hell? Why would you do this? You put my life in danger. I don’t want you working for me anymore.” She barely batted an eyelid when my house got broken into, for God’s sake.
Her brown eyes shimmer with tears. “Briar, please. Another chance. I really want to make this up to you.” She takes my hand again, squeezing. “Think of everything we’ve been through together, babe.”
I sigh. The truth is, I don’t have many people in my life. My reputation means most people hate me on sight. Julie’s been with me the longest out of any of my team. We go to the gym together. She gives me terrible boy advice and brings over low-calorie wine when I’m upset. She’s not a friend; I know, if I weren’t paying her, I’d never see her again. But right now, she’s the closest thing I’ve got.
“Screw this up, and you’re fucking fired. I mean it.”
She nods, brightening back up like a lightbulb, and pushes open the door to the living room. “Just wait until you see them. You’re going to die.”
“What does that mean?”
She just beams, waving me into the lounge. I step inside, and my mouth falls open. “Are you kidding me?”
Sitting hunched on my crushed velvet sofa, their giant knees barely fitting under my crystal coffee table, are three of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in my life.
I see handsome men every day. Models. Movie stars. In my upcoming film, my co-star was named ‘the hottest actor of 2020’.
These three men knock him out of the park. Dressed in matching dark suits, they’re like a smörgåsbord of broad chests, cheekbones and jawlines. It’s pretty clear why Julie hand-picked them.
“For God’s sake,” I snap at her. “I want actual security guards. Not more eye candy for you to drool over!”
“I swear,” she insists. “These guys come really well recommended! The looks are just an added bonus. They’ll look so hot in paparazzi shots.” Her eyes twinkle. “Did I kill it or what, babe?”
“No!” I snap. “You didn’t kill it! Get out of my house!”
The man sitting on the far left stands, glaring at me. He’s probably the most classically handsome of the three; bright blue eyes, strong jaw, black hair. He looks like Clark Kent crossed with an Abercrombie model.
And he looks like he wants to murder me. “Alright,” he barks, turning to his teammates. “This is bullshit. Let’s go.”
“But!” Julie starts.
I nod at him. “Please do. I don’t know what kind of job you were expecting, but I’m looking for actual security. My PR manager,” I toss Julie a black look, “must have made a mistake. I’m really sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll reimburse you for time and petrol.”
He snorts, disgust curling his lip. “I’m sorry, you think we’re not good enough for you? We’re ex-SAS, princess. Including our time in the force, we’ve each been working security for nineteen, twenty years.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s the actual army, right? You’re not just strippers people hire to come to their hen dos wearing camo?”
Yes, okay. That was bitchy. But this man is looking at me like a piece of dog shit that got stuck to his shoe. And I don’t like being called princess.
His scowl deepens, blue eyes smouldering. “Yes, seriously. And we sure as Hell did not go through all that training to be your damn eye candy.”
The man sitting next to him rolls his eyes and tugs at his wrist. “Sit down,” he mutters. “Give her a chance.” He turns to me with a calm smile. “I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot, Miss Saint. We’re from the London-based private protection service, Angel Security. We’re a fully-qualified close protection detail with a lot of experience dealing with high-profile cases like your own.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Kenta Li.”
Oh, thank God. A polite person. I sit down opposite him, taking his hand. Kenta is East Asian, with strong shoulders, angular features, and long, dark hair pulled back in a bun. He has a tattoo on his hand, curling up from his wrist, and his dark eyes are cool and friendly. As my fingers close around his, I could swear a spark of electricity jumps between our skin. I pull back like I’ve been burned.
Kenta blinks and clears his throat, slapping Clark Kent on the back. “This is Matthew Carter. You can call him Matt. As you can probably tell, he’s not very good at making new friends.”
Matt’s face flickers with annoyance. Neither of us offers a handshake.
Kenta tips his head to the man on his left. “And this is Glen Smith.”
My eyes skip to Glen. He’s bigger than the other guys: several inches taller, and so broad that he barely fits on the sofa. His thick hair is full of salt-and-pepper streaks, and his grey eyes are so pale they look almost silvery. An impressive scar runs down the side of his face, stretching all the way from his temple, through his eyebrow, and slashing into his cheek. The skin is puckered and raised, like the wound healed badly. As I watch, he tilts his head slightly, like he wants to hide the scar from view.
I reach across the table to shake his hand. He grips my hand gingerly, his huge fingers dwarfing mine. “Nice to meet you,” I tell him, and I could swear I see his face tint pink with a blush. Something warm thrums deep inside me. I like this one.
I lean back, my mouth suddenly dry. “Sorry to keep you all waiting. I was in a meeting.” Clark Kent—Matt—snorts. I turn to him. “Something funny?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “We’ve been in this business for a long time, Miss Saint. We’re trained to observe our surroundings. And we’re not idiots.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “I’m glad to hear that. And?”
He nods at my hands. “Your fingernails are freshly painted. I can smell the nail polish. You weren’t in a meeting, you were getting a manicure.”
I take a long breath through my nose. “I’m collaborating with a major beauty company to create my own line of nail polishes. I was in a product design meeting. Do you have any other non-idiotic observations that you’d like to make, or can we get started?”
