The after-party at the Cabo villa was winding down, the thumping bass replaced by the gentle lap of waves against the shore. Sarah stood on the darkened edge of the terrace, her eyes scanning the perimeter by habit. She was no longer officially on duty, but old habits died hard.
"You know, the perimeter is clear, Sarah. I checked it myself. Twice."
She didn't need to turn around to know it was Leo. He had a way of moving that was surprisingly quiet for a man who spent his life making noise on a stage. He leaned against the stone railing next to her, smelling of sea salt and the expensive bourbon Chloe had insisted on stocking.
"Checking the perimeter is my job, Leo," Sarah said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. "Yours is to look pretty for the cameras."
Leo chuckled, a low sound that vibrated in the quiet night. He wasn't wearing his stage gear—just a loose black tank top that showed off the intricate sleeve of tattoos snaking down his arm. "I think I've done enough of that for one night. I'd rather be here. With the woman who almost broke my wrist when we first met."
Sarah felt a rare flush creep up her neck. In Cabo, during the first trip, she had nearly tackled him when he'd tried to sneak up on Maya. "You shouldn't have been lurking in the shadows."
"I was looking for a light for my cigarette," he countered, stepping closer. The space between them narrowed until she could feel the heat radiating off him. "But I found something a lot more interesting. A woman who looks at the world like she's ready to fight it, but looks at her friends like they're the only thing that matters."
Sarah finally turned to face him. She was used to being the shield, the one who stood between the world and the people she loved. Having someone look at her—not as a barrier, but as the destination—was terrifying.
"I don't do 'pretty,' Leo. And I definitely don't do 'rock star groupie.'"
"Good," Leo whispered, his hand reaching out. He didn't grab her; he just rested his palm on the railing, inches from her hand, giving her the choice to close the gap. "Because I don't do 'generic pop star.' I do loud music, old bikes, and I happen to be very interested in a woman who could probably kill me with a paperclip."
Sarah looked down at his hand, then back up at his dark, honest eyes. The wall she had built around herself—the one that kept her safe but solitary—felt suddenly very thin.
"I'm not an easy person to be with," she warned.
"I like a challenge," Leo replied.
Sarah took the final step, closing the distance. She reached up, her fingers grazing the tattoos on his forearm before she pulled him down by the collar of his shirt. When she kissed him, it wasn't shy or hesitant. It was a collision—the steady, grounded force of the bodyguard meeting the wild, electric energy of the musician.
Leo's hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him. He tasted like smoke and honey, and for the first time in a long time, Sarah wasn't looking for a threat. She was just... there.