Confined with the CEO and the Bodyguard

my life. But he can be overbearing at the best of times. You can see why the fact that Beau has invited someone to my ranch immediately gets my hackles up.
“Who?” I ask, trying to keep the challenge out of my tone. I am, by nature, easygoing and nonconfrontational. With the pandemic we had agreed not to have visitors for a few months. I’m not pleased that Beau has violated that agreement without consulting me first.
“Remember when you said we should get a masseuse?” Beau smirks. “Well, I put an ad in the paper a few weeks back. We’ve got a taker.” He gestures at the van, which has completed its laborious climb up the long sloping drive and halted at the edge of the pasture behind my shiny red truck. “I tried to discourage her, but you said you wanted to upgrade the Ranch’s offerings, and besides. My back has been killing me.”
Yeah, I wanted to upgrade the Black Diamond’s offerings as Beau phrased it—but right now, I can’t offer any services at all. No lodging. No rides. Forget fucking massages; we don’t have customers to buy them.
“You’re a real idiot sometimes, Beau. It’s a good thing your face is so pretty.” This is a running joke between us. He really does look like a movie star, and when we’re not digging fenceposts, he’s every bit as much of a dandy as you’d think considering his name.
The van looks even worse up close. The make is Chevrolet. It’s dented at the back fender and the scratched white paint is tinged yellow with age and sun. Curiously, the windows are covered with curtains, as if someone’s been living in it.
I am not prepared for who gets out.
Black boots send puffs of dust into the air, followed by legs that don’t quit. Our visitor peels herself out of the car. It’s ninety-five degrees and I don’t care who says it’s a dry heat; it’s still fucking hot. I try to swallow past the parched desert of my throat.
You know that scene with Megan Fox working on a car in the Transformers movie?
I didn’t even like that flick, but I’m hearing music. Time slows. Whoever she is, our visitor looks like a downtrodden Mikaela Banes—what I can see of her, anyway. Her face is diligently obscured by a folded bandana as a makeshift mask.
She wears cutoff jeans cropped to the upper thigh and a black tank top that clings to the nip of her waist and the slight mounds of her breasts.
My stomach sinks.
This unfortunate young woman has arrived to interview for some cockamamie job description Beau cooked up during better times, all of a month ago, when the outbreak was only a worrisome headline and before panicked cancelations cascaded through the booking system. So much has changed, so fast. I wonder what the date is on the paper where she saw the advertisement. I’d guess it’s a couple of weeks old.
My bodyguard is the one who put his name on the want ad, and he is the one who’s been texting with her. I drop the tool and say, “This is your show, Beau.”
My friend heaves a sigh of exasperation. Too damn bad. I’m not bailing him out.
“Miss...”
“Sadie Banes. We texted about the massage therapist job?” she says, shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot.
My spine goes rigid. So does my cock. No way is the fucking Transformers movie going to be a sign, of all movies. I deserve better quality signals from the universe. Then again, the way this year is going...maybe I should count my blessings that I’m not getting signs from Godzilla.
“You have your license?” Beau asks.
What is he thinking? I can’t afford to hire anyone—and if I did, it would be someone to help repair these damn fenceposts, not a woman that makes my whole brain light up with the word sex in neon letters.
He’s thinking about his bad back, that’s what. Beau took a fall several weeks ago from my horse, Diablo, and while the doctor says the underlying injury is healed, there’s lingering pain. That’s why I’ve been the one wielding the post digger, when I should be exercising the horses or arguing with my accountant over video conference.
“Right here,” Sadie Banes says. She bends over the seat of her van to produce a manila envelope. “I’ve completed my training hours. I was just let go from the parlor I worked for because of the pandemic.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and clarifies, “Not for anything performance-related.”
She holds out the folder of her credentials. Beau drags his mask up over his face and takes it. Unlike me, he’s still relatively clean and wearing his shirt. Anyone would think he runs the place. I can’t be too offended that Sadie barely looks at me. Damn, though, I wish I’d made a habit of asserting myself with Beau before this moment.
Sadie gives me a quick, sneaky once-over while he flips through the papers. Never mind the dirt—even though her furtive up-and-down scan is lightning-quick, I can tell she likes what she sees. As her gaze slides away, I catch her eye. Her green eyes, the exact shade of a desert spring, meet mine.
Desire slams through my midsection. I’m sipping air. I feel as if sparklers are shooting embers through my veins. My body is on fire. I don’t care what the rest of her face looks like.
“Well, everything looks good.” Beau is putting up a good front, but it’s obvious to me that my friend is experiencing a similar reaction to our visitor. He barely read her resume and hasn’t asked a single question about her experience. He pats the papers back into the envelope. Then he passes it back to her, arms stretched to the max to try and maintain distance. “But we’re not hiring now.”
Sadie goes very still.
“Was there another candidate?” she asks quietly. “Maybe, if they don’t work out—”
Beau cuts her off. “There’s no other candidate. We’re just