Nurturing Britney (Surrender Book 7) Becca Jameson (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📖

come out. There’s something about him that makes me want to trust him. Hell, there’s something about him that makes me want to throw myself at him. I’d like to feel those big hands running up and down my body.

I shiver and take a step back.

He’s still looking at me. Waiting for a response?

I wrap my arms around my middle. “Okay.” The thing is, he’s perceptive. I’m in trouble. He knows it. I don’t know how the hell he’s so astute, but he is. And the truth is I have no business going back to my apartment ever. The man is offering me a place to stay. I’ll take it. At least for a few days until I can figure shit out.

Chapter 3

Britney

I haven’t been this nervous in a very long time. Even though I grew up in the foster care system and I’ve seen things no kid should ever be exposed to. Even though I’ve been working as a stripper for a year and seen things most adults should never be exposed to.

Nothing compares to the nerves I feel as I step into Davis Marcum’s home. He picked me up at four o’clock like he’d said and hasn’t spoken more than a few words since then.

During the drive, he mostly brooded, his fingers clasping and unclasping the steering wheel.

When we arrived, he parked in the garage and closed it before we got out of his SUV. Not a random, run-of-the-mill SUV. This one is huge. Black. Tinted windows. I half-wonder if it’s armored. It wasn’t easy climbing into it or getting back out. I’m lucky I didn’t fall on my face.

We’ve entered the kitchen. He hooks his keys on a board just inside the door and then turns to me. “I’ll show you around and then we’re going to talk.”

I swallow. I’ve been dreading this all day. Somehow, I suspect he’s going to manage to pull far more information out of me than I’m in the mood to share.

He motions for me to follow him. “I’ve only been here a few months, so I don’t have a guest room set up properly yet, but I do have furniture, and I had some more things you might need delivered during the day.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” I murmur, feeling like I’ve really put this man out. A stranger, I remind myself.

I draw in a deep breath. Cindy knows him. She explained to me during the course of the day that he’s a good guy and I’ll be in excellent hands. She told me that she’s known him for many years, but they only recently reconnected when he moved to Seattle. He was in the Army and got out about six months ago.

He’s also a security specialist, and I gathered from her explanation that he doesn’t simply install personal alarm systems. He was doing Cindy a favor this morning. His agency handles much larger clients with serious needs for either personal or property protection.

In any case, his home is like a fortress. The alarm panel he disarmed to let us in and rearmed after shutting the door would keep out the Mafia. And he did it all with a tiny fob on his keychain. If I hadn’t been paying attention and hadn’t heard the beeping, I might not have noticed he even had an alarm system.

He ignores my contesting as I follow him.

His home is a modest one-story with a modern great room in mostly whites and stainless steel. The living room furniture consists of a black leather couch and armchairs that face an enormous flat-screen above a fireplace.

I follow him into a hallway on the other side of the great room. He points to each door down the hallway as he slowly moves. “Half bath. My office. Workout room. Empty room. Guest room. Master bedroom.” He stops at the one he’s told me is a guest room and pushes the door open.

When he flips on the light, I step inside and look around. It’s not what I was expecting. The furniture is white and honestly kind of feminine in my opinion. Not boxy. Ornate. There’s a dresser, a full-sized, four-posted bed, and a bedside table. Not much else.

He shuffles over to the bed, which I now see is piled with several packages. “I wasn’t sure what you might like, so I ordered several things. You can pick what suits you. I’ll send the rest back.”

My heart is racing as I approach. “You really didn’t have to do this,” I mumble. I’m shocked. Stunned, actually.

He meets my gaze and smirks. “It’s just bedding and towels. I was going to have to purchase this stuff eventually. I only moved here with the furniture. You can’t sleep on the bare mattress.”

I lick my lips and then take in all the packages.

He spreads out a pile of sheets. “What’s your favorite color?”

Suddenly, I notice the selection is kind of odd. It’s all pastel. Nothing bold. Not even white. Like he had no earthly idea what to get and just picked all the girly things. For me. For a guest who isn’t staying more than a few nights. It’s endearing in a way.

I surprise myself when I reach for the pink sheets. I’ve never owned anything pink. I’ve never owned anything very girly at all. Hell, I’ve seriously never owned much of anything, period. Not until I finally got a studio apartment a few years ago and frugally furnished it with whatever I could find at resale shops.

He hands me the pink package and stuffs the others back in the bag before reaching for the pile of comforters. “Again, I wasn’t sure. You want the matching pink one?” He snags it from the bulky group.

“Sure,” I whisper. My heart is racing. I don’t even know myself. I’ve been kind of a tomboy. Except when I’m stripping, of course. I don’t know the woman who is selecting the pastel pink bedding for this white furniture.

He jams the other colors into a larger shopping bag