Page 57 of Brown Sugar
Hours must have gone by. The last thing I remember, it was a sunny afternoon and Tyson was applying a cold compress.
Swinging my legs to the side of the bed, I notice the set of folded clothes laid out for me. A smile slinks onto my face.
He’s left me clothes to change into.
Clothes that are far too big on me given the vast size difference between us, but it’s the thought that counts. I opt for the t-shirt—justthe t-shirt—and then leave the room in search of him. I find him downstairs in the kitchen, huddled over his laptop. His expression’s sharp and concentrated, his gaze unblinking on the screen.
At first he doesn’t even notice me.
For a second or two, I hover in the doorway, observing him.
This stoic, steely mountain of a man who has become such a close and unexpected companion in a short amount of time.
My heart beats faster thinking about where this could be going. What does it mean that I trust Tyson so explicitly after only a few weeks of knowing him?
“I almost got lost,” I say, making my presence known. I pad into the kitchen in his t-shirt that swallows me up and comes down my thighs.
He looks up at the exact moment I do—his dark eyes rove over me.
Surprise flares in them for the briefest second before settling on my face.
“Get enough rest?”
I smirk. “I woke up not knowing what year I was in.”
“That was the goal.”
“You brought me upstairs?”
“You fell asleep in my arms,” he answers. “We were on the sofa. Anytime I’ve fallen asleep on it, I wake with a crick in my neck. The bed’s more comfortable.”
My skin warms up at the mental imagery. Dozing off in his arms so he scooped me up and carried me upstairs to lay me down in his bed. He’d tucked me in…
A huge, intimidating man like him who bulges with muscles and has a permanently furrowed brow.
I almost giggle, but my smirk keeps the sound at bay. I wander deeper into the kitchen and gesture at his laptop.
“What have you been up to?”
“Tracking your situation,” he answers. “Putting together puzzle pieces.”
The smirk’s wiped off my face. My insides twist into small knots. “You don’t need to. You don’t even work as my bodyguard anymore…”
“I’m not letting this go. There’s somebody out there trying to take you out.”
“And you won’t let them?”
He drags his gaze from the laptop screen back to me. Resolve burns in the dark, stone-like orbs. The knots that had twisted inside me begin coiling even tighter, but for a different reason—Tyson’s so determined to uphold his duty to protect me, it feels overwhelming.
In comparison to the disregard from Tommy and the record label, it feels like Tyson is the first person in a long time to see me as a person. The woman I am and not just some brand to sell.
“I’m not stopping ’til it’s handled,” he says. “Today’s car crash was no accident.”
“What have you found?”
He pats the stool next to his. “Sit down. There’s a lot to go over.”
Dread pools at the pit of my belly as I do what he says. Sliding onto the kitchen stool next to his, I look at his laptop screen to discover a familiar image.