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  Saving Bliss

  Rachael Brownell

  Saving Bliss

  Copyright © 2016 by Rachael Brownell. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior express permission of the author except as provided by US Copyright Law. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  This book is a work of fiction and does not represent and individual, living or dead. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Book cover designed by Alivia Anders of White Rabbit Book Designs.

  Professionally edited by Maria Pease.

  Published in the United States of America.

  ISBN-13: 978-1535028011

  ISBN-10: 1535028017

  To my amazing readers…

  Thank you for waiting for me to be able to finish this story. It was a true process, taking me well over two years to complete. It wasn’t until recently that I figured out why. This was the story that I was working on while I sat by my grandmother’s bed in hospice. I put it away after that, not wanting to think about it or her for a while. I was destroyed in a way that can’t be explained.

  I was the first grandbaby. I gave her the first great-grandbaby. We had a special bond that was so amazing it cannot be put into words. In fact, I have that same bond with my grandfather. They are both amazing people with amazing strength. Thankfully, I still have my grandfather, but my grandmother was taken from me much too soon and way too quickly.

  I hope you all enjoy Bliss and Owen’s story. If you’ve read any of my other books, you know how much I love to hear from my readers—the good, the bad and the ugly. You can leave a review or contact me personally.

  Much love,

  Rachael

  [email protected]

  Staring down the barrel of a gun has never been on my to-do list. Unfortunately, it never needs to be if I make it out of this alive.

  They say that your life flashes before your eyes. They're wrong. I'm not thinking about my life at this moment. I'm not thinking about what will happen next. I'm frozen, my eyes fixated on the cold piece of metal that's pointed directly at my forehead. The shiny gray that's catching the light makes the gun look soft and smooth, less scary in a way, but scarier at the same time.

  No, I'm not thinking about the life I've lived up to this point or even the life that I'll miss out on should his finger flinch. I'm thinking about how the hell I'm going to get out of this situation and praying that I'll be able to. I'm willing myself to look around, to look away from the gun, to look for something that might help me, or someone that might take pity on me.

  I wonder where Owen is. He was hired to protect me, and he’s failed. I should have known he would fail. After all, I didn't exactly make it easy for him to keep me safe. Now, I'm wishing I had listened to him more, that I had heeded his advice. We never listen to the ones we love, do we?

  The gun moves, the light reflecting in my eye, and I attempt to scream. My lips tear at the duct tape covering my mouth, but no sound comes out. My heart is racing, making breathing more difficult. Inhaling deeply through my nose, I try my best to calm down, but it's no use. I'm not going to be able to until my situation changes. Not until I know that I will survive this. Not until I see his face again and he tells me everything is going to be alright.

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I say a prayer. I pray for a miracle that I don't believe will happen, but I need to believe is possible. I need to keep my focus on getting the hell out of here. I need to stay calm and breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Ex—

  "Owen!"

  "Hey, beautiful. What are you doing in this horrible place?" His voice is soft, only above a whisper, but I can hear him clearly from across the room.

  "They took me." My voice sounds shaky. I take a deep breath, attempting to swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat.

  "I know." I wait for him to say more, but he doesn't.

  "What do you mean? You know where I am?" I'm frustrated, and I know he can hear it in my voice.

  Owen grins at me. His lopsided, sexy-as-hell grin makes my heart swoon. I allow myself to smile on the inside but not visibly. He's turning me on, and he knows it.

  What am I thinking? Nothing can get more complicated than the situation I'm in right now. The only way I'm going to get out of this is with Owen's help. I need him now more than ever.

  Looking up, we make eye contact. I'm staring into his baby blues, and he's staring back at me. The moment he sees the need in my eyes, I see it. His eyes go dark as if the storm that's raging inside him has just broken free. Now, I allow myself to smile. That storm is my hope. That storm is the only hope I have of getting out of here alive, of being rescued.

  "Take me home, Owen. Please." It's all I can think to say.

  That's when he turns his back to me and starts to walk away. Where's he going? Why isn't he taking me with him? The farther he gets from me, the more I want to shout at him to come back, but I've lost my voice. No, it’s not lost. The tape is over my mouth again.

  "Wake up bitch!" I hear the words just as I feel something hard hit the side of my head.

  Opening my eyes, I find the gun is still pointed at me. Its sleek metal shines in the light, taunting me. It was just a dream. Owen isn't here to rescue me. He might not even know where I am. I have no idea where I am. What I do know is that he's my only chance to get out of here alive.

  Taking a chance, I look up at my captor, past the gun, and right into his eyes. His devious smile tells me he’s enjoying this. How did I not realize this sooner? How was I so clueless as to his intentions when we first met? None of that matters now. Everything makes sense as I glare at him and see the devil staring back at me.

  1

  Owen

  3 Months Earlier

  I check my watch for the third time, hoping the minute hand will have crept forward. Nope. I still have fifteen minutes. Why did I get here so early again?

  I look around for an empty seat, but there's none in sight. Every available surface from chair to ledge is filled with people. Shifting my weight onto my other foot, I patiently wait for what's about to happen. This job is the best opportunity I've been given, and after the mistakes I've made, I was lucky to find it. It's not glamorous like I assumed my first job would be, but it pays well, and it seems like it will be pretty easy. I'm not sure what my job title is. I assume you could call me a bodyguard, but it's a little more intense than that. I'm supposed to shadow this girl—live with her, keep her safe, protect her from "experiencing too much" as her father put it.

  I get it. I understand parents want to make sure their children are safe when they go away to college. I also get that he's a man of great importance and that her choices could reflect negatively on him and their family. What I don't understand is why he thinks that, 1,000 miles away from home, this girl will be in danger. Unless he's crooked. It's possible, I guess, since most men with power in politics seem to be crooked.

  Don't get me wrong. Mr. Cooper seems like a nice enough guy. He played the doting father card. He also made it crystal clear to me that I was to intervene in her life if it seemed like she would make a decision that he wouldn't like. He even made me a list. Yes, there's a list of things she’s not allowed to do. I asked him if she received the same list so she wouldn't attempt to blatantly defy him, and I was met with a blank stare. I'm going to guess she didn’t receive the list.

  He onl
y had one rule for me. I cannot touch her. Again, I get it. He's trying to protect his daughter. I almost laughed at him but was able to restrain myself. Does he not understand that telling me not to touch her will more than likely cause me to want to? Acting on it is another story. I need this job, and I do not need that headache. But who’s to say she won’t act on her impulses just to see if she could get away with it? After all, we are shacking up together for the next seven months.

  One of the baggage carousels jumps to life, and I wonder if that's my cue. Looking down at my watch one more time, I notice the last fifteen minutes have flown by. She should be arriving at any moment, so I pull out the thick piece of cardboard with her name on it and hold it against my chest. She's expecting me, according to her father, but I'm not sure what to expect from her. We haven’t had the opportunity to meet before now.

  The chairs around me begin to empty, and I watch as person after person is greeted by family and friends. They hug, shake hands, and shed tears. I try not to stare, try not to allow my emotions to creep up on me, but these people are surrounding me. The only safe place to look is down, so I do. I stare at my shoes. I stare at the polished black floors. Then, I'm staring at tan legs. My field of vision is suddenly filled with a pair of dainty feet with purple-painted toenails in a pair of brown, strappy sandals. My client.

  When I look up and our eyes meet, the word client pushes its way into the depths of my brain and takes cover. Her eyes are a beautiful shade of chocolate brown and have me in a momentary trance. Something is off about them, though. They lack any kind of emotion. They almost look sad, but it feels like more than that. Her stare is cold like she's shutting herself, and her emotions, off from the world, from me.

  When I attempt to look away, I catch sight of her lips. Mistake number one. They are pursed at me, but they look so soft. I want to reach out and run the pad of my thumb over them. Good thing I know better. Instead, I look to the floor again, giving myself a moment to regain my composure. Mistake number two. I have at least eight inches on her tiny frame, and as I slowly look to the floor, I close my eyes with the vision of her amazing body in the forefront of my mind.

  Her body is a work of art. It looks perfectly proportioned for her tiny frame. Her breasts look to be a little more than a handful. Then again, my hands are large. They might be just enough. It's her legs that are refusing to walk their way out of my mind. They seem to go on for days, but I know that's impossible. She's only a few inches over five feet.

  This girl, Bliss Cooper, is going to be the death of me. I should quit now and walk away. There is no way that I will survive her. Her father's voice, stating his only rule, is on replay in my mind, growing louder and louder and then going silent as I try to pull myself back together.

  She starts tapping her cute foot on the floor. When I look up, mistake number three, she has her hip popped out, hand on top of it, as she's staring at me. I attempt to find my voice, but words are lost to me at this point. Her expression tells me that she knows exactly why I'm not saying anything and that she finds it funny. The purse of her lips is gone and has been replaced with a smirk. That smirk, those beautiful eyes, and the body I'm trying to avoid looking at are a deadly combination.

  I'm here to protect her, I try to remind myself. I'm here to do a job. I need this job. I can't afford to screw this up. I have people relying on me. This is my opportunity to prove to everyone that I'm a better person than they've given me credit for. I cannot allow this girl to ruin everything for me. I cannot allow my heart to ruin this for me. She's hot, there's no denying it, but I have no room in my life for complicated, and I guarantee, anything that would happen between us would be nothing less than complicated.

  "Are you going to stand there and stare at me all day, or are we going to grab my bags so we can get the hell outta here?" Even her voice is sexy. She's sugar and spice all mixed together, and everything she's saying is coming out sarcastic and sassy. Combine that with her southern drawl… Damn!

  Clearing my throat, I shake my head slightly to help clear away the dirty thoughts that are trying to take control of my body. "Bliss Cooper? I'm Owen Hudson." I sound like I'm going through puberty the way my voice cracks. I extend my hand toward her, but she looks at it like it's a foreign object, so I let it fall to my side.

  "I know who you are. My father was nice enough to tell me about you as I was being dropped off at the airport this morning. Not that I'm surprised." You can hear the disdain she has for her father loud and clear. "You're my babysitter, I guess."

  My lip curls up on one side, and I try to hold back the laugh that’s building in my chest. The last thing I thought I would be called was a babysitter, but she has a valid point. Essentially, that's what I am, but I'm also trained to be able to protect her from danger. Does she realize that?

  "How about you refer to me as Owen and not your babysitter. If you have to explain to someone who I am, you could always tell them I'm your bodyguard or your roommate."

  "How about we talk about this after we get to our apartment, roomie. I need to take a shower and rinse the germs from my body. There was a kid behind me who was coughing the entire flight. I'm sure I caught something."

  And there is the girl that I was expecting. Miss High and Mighty has emerged. I figured she would be a spoiled brat, self-righteous and all that. After all, her father is and has been for twenty plus years the mayor of their town. Apparently, it's a family tradition.

  I don't get a chance to respond as she turns and makes a B-line for the baggage carousel that is now spitting out luggage. Following her, out of obligation and not choice, I allow myself to enjoy the view as a small consolation for the journey I'm about to embark on. A journey that, five minutes ago, seemed like it was going to be easy. Now, I'm not sure I will be able to handle her without wanting to pin her against a wall and claim those soft lips.

  We come to an abrupt halt behind a large group of people. They’re all trying to push their way toward the carousel. Bliss starts looking around for a way to get to the front of the group, but I know from past experience it's better to just stand back and wait. I have a feeling she's not the kind that is used to waiting on things.

  "My luggage is black and has a neon pink ribbon tied to the handle."

  She doesn't bother to look at me as she drops down into a nearby chair, pulling out her cell phone. I should attempt to grab her luggage, but I don't. I'm not fighting the crowd. I'll wait for it to clear, then I'll grab her bag.

  "Why are you just standing there?"

  "There are at least twenty people fighting to get their bags right now. I can wait, and so can you." I turn my head slightly so I see the moment when she gives herself a small case of whiplash. The evil look in her eye makes it clear she didn't like my answer. I don't care. Call Daddy and tell him. I'm sure your luggage is at the top of his priority list.

  That's what I want to say to her. I don't, but I want to. Instead, I remain silent as her eyes bore holes into the back of my head. If we're having this much fun already, I can't imagine what it's going to be like living with her every day. I can't imagine how much fun we are going to have as I practically shadow her every move. My brain may be telling me that I don't want this, but my body is having an entirely different reaction to her.

  Focusing on the crowd in front of me, I watch as person after person struggles to get their bags off the moving carousel, through the crowd of people behind them, and into the open area where I'm patiently waiting. Once half the crowd is gone, I move forward, spotting Bliss' bag without a problem. I was expecting a bigger bag. That's when I catch sight of a matching bag making its way toward me.

  I pull both bags easily off the carousel and head back to where Bliss is sitting, feverishly texting someone. Her phone is in front of her face so I can't see those sinful lips I've been thinking about.

  "Where are the rest of my bags?" she asks, making eye contact for only a mere second before focusing on her phone again.

  "Exactly how many bags s
hould I be looking for, Miss Bliss?" That got her attention. I have a feeling she didn't like my tone. It's either that or she's caught on to the fact that she's annoying the hell out of me. My shoulders tense slightly as I wonder if I crossed the line.

  A smile breaks out across her face, but before I can relax, it turns to an evil grin. "Five."

  What the hell? Our apartment is already full of plenty of her shit. Some company came in two days ago with furniture and miscellaneous other things. What else could she have possibly brought?

  Leaving those two at her feet, I head back to the carousel to watch for the rest. They come around the bend only a few minutes later, one right after the other. I'm not sure how we are going to fit all of her luggage in my Jeep, but somehow, I'm going to have to manage. I wonder how she feels about waiting here while I take her luggage home. I would come back for her. Eventually.

  Bliss

  I should be excited to leave this damn place. I should be excited to head back to New York for my last year of school. I should be excited to get out from under my father's over-protective, watchful eye. I should be excited, but I'm not. My father killed all my excitement the moment he told me what would be waiting for me when I arrived in New York this year.

  Owen Hudson.

  Those two simple words, that name, just ruined any chance I had at freedom for the final time. This person, this man, is standing between me and the life I was going to attempt to have this year for a change. All the plans I made over the summer with Avery have been permanently flushed down the drain. Every idea, every plan, and every connection we made—gone. My father has a way of ruining anything that is important to me. He succeeds. Every. Single. Time.

  Failure is not an option in my family.