Bodyguard by Night (Happy Acres Book 2) Read online

  Bodyguard by Night

  A Happy Acres Romance book 2

  Taryn Quinn

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  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Bodyguard by Night

  © 2022 Taryn Quinn

  Rainbow Rage Publishing

  Cover by LateNite Designs

  Photograph by Lindee Robinson Photography

  Models: Jake & Shayna

  All Rights Are Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First ebook edition: June 2022

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  Bodyguard by Night

  Protecting my best friend's new sister-in-law Willow from a fan who wants to get a little too close is a no-brainer.

  Just requires me to do some checking around, to act as her shadow for a while, maybe even give her a place to stay so I can keep an eye on her—all so my best friend's small-town wedding to Willow's sister goes off without a hitch.

  But many hours spent in close quarters changes the game quickly. And now Willow—Chaos to me—is no longer just a job.

  She's a bright light who shines into all the darkest corners of my solitary-by-choice life. Until a snap decision I make to try to draw out her stalker risks our relationship—and her life.

  Suddenly, I'm not just trying to keep her safe, I'm part of the picture. And the race is on for us to figure out who is tracking us before the price goes far too high….

  Author’s note: Bodyguard by Night is the second book in our Happy Acres contemporary romance series, which is set near Crescent Cove. This book has a happily-ever-after and no cliffhanger.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  1. Willow

  2. Ransom

  3. Willow

  4. Ransom

  5. Willow

  6. Ransom

  7. Willow

  8. Ransom

  9. Willow

  10. Ransom

  11. Willow

  12. Ransom

  13. Willow

  14. Ransom

  15. Willow

  16. Ransom

  17. Willow

  18. Ransom

  19. Willow

  20. Ransom

  21. Willow

  22. Ransom

  23. Willow

  24. Ransom

  25. Willow

  26. Ransom

  27. Willow

  28. Ransom

  29. Willow

  30. Willow

  31. Ransom

  32. Ransom

  33. Willow

  34. Ransom

  Epilogue

  Fiancée by Christmas

  Daddy on Duty

  Happy Acres World

  Happy Acres

  Crescent Cove

  More by Taryn Quinn

  Quinn and Elliott

  Follow Us

  About Taryn Quinn

  Acknowledgments

  Sometimes we make up fictional places that end up having the same names as actual places. These are our fictional interpretations only. Please grant us leeway if our creative vision isn't true to reality.

  For the artists and the TikTok peeps that always keep us entertained. We love you madly.

  This one’s for you.

  Chapter 1

  Willow

  For Really Real

  I blew my hair out of my face. I should have put it up, but my damn vanity always got me. My hair was my best feature. And it wasn’t like I was cooking for anyone else.

  Well, except the camera.

  Which was where the vanity came in, but that was another day’s therapy.

  Anyway, I was used to finding long red hair everywhere in my apartment. Okay, the apartment I shared with four other girls. Which reminded me I only had another hour in the kitchen before my sworn enemy, Dennelle, came home from her shift.

  She hated my “little project” as she called it.

  “That little project had two hundred thousand views yesterday,” I muttered as I cleaned off the counter. I rushed around the miniature island to check my camera. That last clip was going to be great for my bloopers’ reel.

  Here I was on my third try making pâte à choux. The baking shows made it look easy—though I’d watched more than one contestant melt down when the pastry was too runny. Not-so-pro tip—the little pastries didn’t puff up into beautiful golden vehicles for filling when that happened. And now I knew their pain.

  I was going to make a batch of these suckers that rose properly today if it killed me.

  Or I ran out of time.

  I played back my last take. Some of the footage was salvageable. Just not the last twenty minutes when the buttery sludge had spread across my Slipat sheet.

  Hmm. I paused. Maybe I should use what I had. Show the not so pretty side of baking. People needed to know that shortcuts were great, but they couldn’t be used for everything.

  Especially something like cream puffs.

  I set the camera to do another take. I had about thirty minutes left on my memory card, so I’d need to make them count. Then I’d see what I had and edit. I could probably get two posts out of this debacle.

  I huffed out another breath, my frizzing curls fluttering around my face. I could do this. I was good at this, dammit.

  Gingerly stepping around my tripod, I masterfully hopped over a box I used to prop my lights up just right and got myself situated around the kitchen island.

  Social media apps were all about showing people the good parts. They definitely weren’t supposed to see the jar of Skippy I used to make my tripod just a touch higher to get the full kitchen island in frame.

  Then again, my particular fans liked to see the behind-the-scenes footage too. I didn’t mind leaning into some comedic timing for the views. I’d learned long ago to laugh at myself. It staunched the tears.

  Laughing through my stumbles was what my social media channel was all about. Making mistakes and finding the shortcuts to create the cool things people found on television or on the various video channels. Or even failing and ending up with a new lesson to add to my personal cooking arsenal.

  Maybe I’d make a video about that, actually.

  I glanced around in my chaos on the kitchen counter, then I spotted my phone on my last carton of eggs. I grabbed it and quickly opened my notes app to write down the idea. A notification popped up about yesterday’s video, distracting me from said notes app.

  Maybe I’d just check my replies really quick.

  I scrolled as I wound my way around the couch that bisected the kitchen from the shoebox-sized living room. Living in the city—even if it was in the more generous apartments located in Brooklyn—meant space was a premium. I was pretty sure our lovely landlord had sliced up the living room space to add another bedroom.

  My bedroom. Or coffin as I called it lovingly.

  I smiled at a few of my regular commenters, quickly scrolling past the trolls telling me I sucked and the bots telling me I should DM them for more followers. I’d learned a long time ago to ignore the noise. Reading that crap was the road to a depressive spiral that made me question everything, followed directly by searching job sites for a regular
job that included a steady paycheck.

  But then I remembered I really sucked at regular jobs and I got my ass up to make another video. I wasn’t so good at the whole being to work on time. The number of times I’d been fired for that reason alone made my resumé look like swiss cheese. Nine times out of ten, they hated to fire me too but there were rules.

  Rules were the bane of my existence.

  And here I was getting paid to actually break them. After the last firing, Wil’s Way began.

  I soaked in the sweet replies about being excited for another video. Answered another one asking a question about doing a collaboration. And deleted another one that was obviously a spam reply.

  My heart stalled as the willowsheart611 screenname jumped out at me.

  “Dammit.”

  My first instinct was to delete the reply, but that only made them post again. And then their making a big deal about me deleting their replies had turned into a witch hunt in the comments. People loved adding their two cents when it came to internet outrage until my post had a thread one hundred replies deep with people raging about perceived slights.

  Soon, it had been a mindless stream of hateful diatribes that got so twisted I had to hide or delete them. I’d lost count of how many times I’d blocked this particular person. I had a feeling it was a dude, but I couldn’t be sure. Regardless, they always came back with a new screenname.

  One that was suspiciously close to the last one.

  They probably had made a bunch of them at once to have them on hand. Okay, perhaps I was being paranoid, but I’d been through the fixation game a time or two.

  Once in person.

  I wiped my suddenly clammy palm against my thigh. No, we weren’t going to go there. That had happened a damn long time ago and he couldn’t hurt me anymore.

  Couldn’t find me anymore.

  I slammed the box closed on that little trip into my past.

  This was a totally different thing. Just a minor annoyance. I wasn’t special in this regard. Anyone with a successful channel had these problems. Just one of the downsides of fame.

  Or perceived fame. The internet helped make people hot and just as quickly, fall into the not column. I was focused on staying in the former category.

  “You can do it. Just get it over with,” I muttered to myself. My heart rate slowed. Okay, that one wasn’t bad.

  willowsheart611: Your beauty is only second to your amazing culinary genius.

  Much like the replies they’d first made. Back when I’d thought that person had been harmless, if a little odd.

  I scrolled on by it and dropped a heart on a few other ones. Replied with a few links to previous videos for people asking questions. In a perfect world, people would look at my feed, but then again, I’d learned neon arrows were the preferred path.

  People were fucking lazy.

  I glanced at the time and swore. Now I only had forty-five minutes to get my video done. Quickly, I checked my makeup and hair in the skinny mirror we’d crammed in the corner of the living room. I’d let my hair do the curly thing today, but it was getting hot with the lights.

  “Screw it.” I twisted up the long, thick strands and secured it into a messy bun. Vanity only worked when the effect was actually cute.

  After rushing back to the kitchen, I found my remote under my recipe notebook and turned on the camera.

  I flashed a grin directly into the lens. “Ready to do this choux thing? I think you are. No, you know what? I know you are. We can totally do this.” I pulled the eggs in front of me. “Handily, I don’t have Paul Hollywood staring at me as I figure this out.” I nibbled my lip and let the smile spread. “He really is a silver fox, isn’t he? Whew! Do you have a favorite chef—other than me, hello! Throw your thoughts in the comments.”

  I went through the steps of making the pastry. This time, it actually looked as it should.

  “Okay, I know this seems like a lot of eggs, but trust me…when you stuff one of these suckers in your mouth hole, you won’t care.”

  I was my usual chatty self as I made the half dollar-sized circles on the baking sheet.

  “And that’s it. Time to cook. Now if it looks too runny and you don’t get these little peak thingies, then you gotta start over. I know, I know. It sucks, but that’s part of baking.” I snorted. “Wait until you guys see the blooper reel for this one. I have failed no less than five times.”

  I shrugged with a good-natured smile and straightened up, making sure my Wil’s Way apron was in the frame.

  “You know I want to give you shortcuts for dang near everything—can’t do it here.” I grinned into the camera. “However, I do have some tips to make the filling. Guess that means there’s a part two for this one! Hit that plus sign to follow for more.”

  I let the camera roll for an extra few seconds, and then I grabbed my remote. I was about to check the video when I heard swearing outside the door.

  I glanced at the clock on the microwave. Why did Dennelle have to be so damn punctual?

  Wiping my hands on my apron, I quickly scooped all my tools and wrappers into the big garbage bowl I used to keep things semi-controlled.

  “Dammit, Willow. What the hell did you order this time? This box is as big as our television.”

  I frowned as I dumped everything into the sink. I hadn’t ordered anything. Sometimes I got items from companies looking for reviews, but I wasn’t sponsored.

  Yet.

  It was one of my secret goals.

  Also, I also had a PO Box for anything that was sent to me unsolicited. I didn’t give out my address to anyone.

  I rushed to the front vestibule. Dennelle wasn’t kidding.

  “Well, don’t give me those stupid big eyes. It only works on idiot men. Help me.”

  She was such a delight.

  Hurriedly, I lifted the other end of the box. We shuffled our way into the living room before she dropped her end.

  Something inside shifted and made a loud clunk.

  Dennelle stepped over the box, her icepick heels landing an inch away from my foot. “That better not take up more room in the kitchen. It’s already full to the brim with all your shit.”

  “I didn’t order anything.”

  “Yeah, well, it says your name, doesn’t it?” She shook her platinum blond hair out of her face so it fell in the severe straight lines that framed her glacial cheekbones and pointy chin. Elsa had nothing on her ice queen look.

  Self-consciously, I pushed at my sagging bun. I always felt extra frumpy around her. My hair was about as tamable as my mouth. Most of the time, I liked that it was wild, but the minute this woman was in my space, I couldn’t help but notice our extreme differences.

  Her flawless, pale skin—my endless freckles. Her suit, my embroidered jeans and bare feet.

  I must have been extra bohemian today since her forehead dared to wrinkle with her sneer. “Are you ever going to grow up?”

  My eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

  “You look like a twelve-year-old who got her clothes from the thrift shop.”

  My jeans were actually hand-stitched by an artist and probably cost as much as one of her Louboutins. Not the pair—I wasn’t that extra with my clothes. Though I was pretty extra if you asked my sister.

  I frowned. Speaking of my sister, maybe she sent the box. “What’s today’s date?”

  Dennelle rolled her eyes. “I rest my case.”

  “I work for myself. Days have no meaning.”

  Dennelle snorted.

  “But I still pay my rent and utilities, unlike you did for a few months last year.”

  She flushed. “I was deciding between firms.”

  I gave her a flat smile. And okay, it had been a very shaky thing to make rent before I’d discovered the joys of social media creator funds. Happy hail Mary pass for the win.

  Not that I really knew what a hail Mary pass was, but it sounded good. And there had been many prayers, tears, and deals made with various deities as I learne
d the online ropes.

  Dennelle gave an exasperated sigh. “You’re having one of those conversations in your head again, aren’t you?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes—barely. “Look, I’ll make sure to take care of the box, okay?”

  “Whatever.” She glanced into the kitchen. “And clean that up,” she added as she flounced.

  Well, in my overactive imagination it was a flounce. It was more like a stalking click of heels down the hardwood hallway that led to her bedroom.

  I plopped onto the couch and dragged the box closer to me. I didn’t recognize the company on the address label, but I did love presents. Who didn’t? My sister was famous for sending me odd little unexpected gifts.

  At least she used to. Now it was all things wedding with a side of honeymoon and the occasional discussion about the CocoaBus craze she’d created in Happy Acres.

  Guess we were more alike than I’d thought.

  I dug out the old guitar pick I kept in my pocket for opening boxes. My ex…three exes back? Maybe it had been four. Bobby had been a long time ago. The only good thing I’d kept from our very short-lived romance was the pick. One would think a guitarist could find his way around a clit.