VEGASPETE🔞+HER CRUEL BODYGUARD

Chepter 15

PETE POV

Vegas was already awake when I came out of my bedroom around nine the next morning. Only the hint of shadows under his eyes and an even grumpier expression than usual spoke of a long night and a little too much alcohol. I wasn’t sure how many more Pernods he’d enjoyed after I’d gone to bed.

“I need food,” I groaned as I sank down on the hard kitchen chair across from Vegas.

“Good luck with that. We forgot to go grocery shopping yesterday.”

I grimaced. Mom had reminded us to go shopping before she’d left, but of course I’d forgotten it right after. I’d never had to go grocery shopping before, without Mom.

“What do we do now?” I said miserably.

Vegas smirked. “We could go grocery shopping.”

“I think I’ll pass out until then. I really need to eat.”

“You’re a drama King.”

I scowled.

“How about we head into one of these tiny cafés you’re always raving about? Croissant and a hot chocolate will cure your hangover.”

I gave him a pleased smile. “Sounds like a plan. Let me get ready.”

I put on a cute dress, an oversized cashmere sweater, cashmere chunky pant leg warmers and suede boots, and braided my hair before I put a beret hat on.

Vegas glanced at his watch when I emerged. “Thirty minutes? I thought you needed food ASAP.”

“We’re heading into a café in Paris. I can’t go in sweatpants.”

Vegas rose to his feet. “Alllrrriggghtt.”

Despite his grumbling, I didn’t miss the appreciation in his eyes as he scanned me. I looked cute, even if he would never admit it aloud.

We strolled through the street side by side, the winter sun kissing our faces. On occasion, our arms brushed and it felt marvelous. “I think we’re pretty good together. You can tell that people think we’re a cute couple.” It was a thought that hadn’t left me all night.

Vegas slanted me a weary look. “But we aren’t.”

Apparently, his lowered guards were no longer in effect. He was back to being the distanced bodyguard.

I motioned at a small corner café ahead of us. I’d seen a recommendation for it in a Time Out article about breakfast places in Paris. When we stepped in, a waiter gave us a curt nod and greeted us in French then proceeded to ask if we had a reservation. His words were directed at Vegas who stared back blankly.

I replied, before Vegas could ask him to speak English and cost us any chance at a table. The waiter’s face brightened when I spoke to him in fluent French, which was probably why we were lucky enough to get a table. Someone had canceled their reservation and we got a small round table near the window overlooking the street.

I settled on the chair. Vegas with his larger frame bumped his knees against the underside of the table. “Are these places made for kids?”

“Not everyone’s as tall as you. If you don’t man-spread, you’ll be fine.”

Vegas gave me an annoyed look, then turned the menu card over, probably looking for the English version, which wasn’t there. He sighed.

Vegas was trying to find fault in all kinds of things because he simply didn’t want to be in Paris. If he’d just enjoy it, he’d find joy in the differences.