Page 12 of Brown Sugar

“You sound like Tommy.”

“He’s been your manager for almost your whole career. Maybe he knows a thing or two.”

I’m still considering what Amari’s said when there’s a hard knock at the door.

I let out a sigh. “That’s probably the new security guy. TommyinsistedI hire him.”

“You mean the one who saved you from a bullet? Um, sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.”

“We’ll see about that.”

I set down my container of grapes and cross the large space to answer the front door. Even in the aftermath of the shooting, I hadn’t been convinced the man Tommy said would be my new head bodyguard was a good fit.

First of all, one look at him told me he was too strict. Too serious. Too stuck with a stick wedged up his ass if he was scowling all the damn time.

At least my old head of security, Arnold, had a good sense of humor. He was kind of incompetent and flighty at times, but he tried his best and kept the mood light.

This guy looks like he’s never laughed a day in his life.

Then there was how he’d actedafterthe shooting—like I was at fault that some psycho in a hoodie ran up on me in the club.

I open the door to him on my doorstep and roll my eyes on principle alone.

“Oh,” I say. Then I sigh. “You. Come in… I guess…”

To say Tyson Jeffries towers over me would be an understatement. He’s what most would call a mountain of a man.

Tall. Broad. Huge.

Intimidating.

His wrists look like the size of my thighs. His thighs are the size of my whole body.

His beard’s grizzly in a barbarian sort of way and his eyes are dark and foreboding, like he’s not beyond crushing skulls for looking at him wrong.

He’s nothing but intense energy and sizable presence.

Attractive if tank-sized men are your thing.

But they’renotmine.

Sure, I like tall guys—Iwaswith an NBA player for four years—and I like a man who’s strong and capable, but a grumpy grizzly bear has never been on my Mr. Right bingo card.

I turn away from the door on the assumption he’ll follow me deeper into the apartment.

He does. His presence becomes a tangible feeling, so dominant and thick that it eclipses me as if this is his space and not mine.

“This is my sister, Amari,” I say, gesturing to the living room where she’s curled up on the loveseat. I put my hands on my hips when I turn around to face him again. “Look, I realize Tommy made you come by for this sync up, but how about we keep it real? How about you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours? Then, when you hand in your inevitable resignation letter, we can pretend this little ordeal never happened. Sound good?”

You’d think he didn’t even hear a word I said the way he peers down at me like I’m an inconvenient insect that’s crawled across his plate of food. His gaze remains dark and foreboding, his expression stoic and unreadable.

What the fuck’s this guy’s problem!?

I glance over my shoulder at Amari to check if she see’s what I’m seeing. She gives a shrug, then returns her attentionto the TV. The reality show we’re watching has returned from commercial break.

Thanks a lot for the backup, A.

I huff out a breath and then put on a stank-eye kind of face of my own.