I have a hot British bodyguard in my guest room. Could be worse, I guess. Like…bats in the attic? Though bats don’t rip your panties and ruin you for all other men. How did this happen? My sister married the prince he protects, so I now have an extra room and insisted my friend stay with me when she left her abusive husband. Her husband is being a real a-hole about that. Which made the bodyguard all growly and he moved in to protect us. That sounds nice, I know. But he’s my ex. And when his best friend married my sister, we agreed to do the mature adult avoid each other for the rest of our lives. Now he’s sleeping down the hall, walking around looking delicious, talking with that panty-melting accent, making me breakfast, just…taking care of me. And giving my friend pep talks and self-defense lessons, being sweet to her scared little boy, and making her jerk ex very sorry. So, I really can’t be blamed for what happens in the shower—he should have been quieter if he didn’t want company—or against the wall in the kitchen. But here’s the the royals have become the family he never had growing up. He’ll never quit. And I’ve spent the past sixteen years helping my sister raise her daughter. Now's my chance to figure out what I want—and that's not here in my tiny hometown. So, we need to help my friend and nothing more. We can’t be reckless. Not with where we take our clothes off. Not with our words. And certainly not with our hearts.