Three Bossy Bodyguards and a Sassy Girl

By Chloe Kent

Most people inherit money. Or property. Family heirlooms. Some get nothing but the middle finger.

 

But not Willow Gray. She inherits three whole bossy, bold, and bone-melting hot bodyguards from an eccentric aunt she knew nothing about except that maybe she had a playful, deviant sense of humor because… who bequeaths someone three whole bodyguards?

 

They've been instructed to be her shadow and they take their job seriously. Too seriously. She can't go anywhere without them, and they can't care less about her privacy, whether she's sleeping, working her office job, or getting a Brazilian wax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chloe Kent
• Release date: Jun 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223591818

Book preview

Chapter One

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To my grandniece, I bequeath the following: Beckett King, Aston Lane, and Keaton Reed.

Rayne Bradshaw opened her mouth, then closed it again.

She leaned forward, frowned a bit, then placed her finger on her lips in what she hoped was a thoughtful gesture. Thoughtful? Who was she trying to impress? Certainly not the surly solicitor man sitting opposite her. The word she was looking for was baffled. Befuddled. Discombobulated.

What the heck was a Beckett King, an Aston Lane, and a Keaton Reed?

She had never heard of those things in her life before. But then she also hadn’t known any rich people before either. Alive or dead, as was the case now.

Are those the names of... houses, like mansions? She asked the stern man sitting behind his pristinely tidy mahogany desk, in his stiff black suit, with his air of impatience shimmering all around him like a cape.

No. Ms. Bradshaw—

Oh wait. That’s the name of the three islands I just inherited, right? I mean, they’re strange names for islands. But what do I know, right? I can see it now. Oh, I’m going to Beckett King this summer. The beach in Aston Lane is to die for this time of year. I’ll be drinking Mai Tais in Keaton Reed to recover from my headache.

No, they’re not the names of the islands you inherited.

Gosh, she didn’t think Mr. William Lester Montgomery over there could get any more curmudgeon, but he proved her wrong. She ignored him and carried on.

Of course. They’re horses, right? Like racehorses?

No.

Okay. Then they must be the names of three private jets?

No.

Jewels?

The solicitor shook his head.

Passwords that would unlock a gazillion dollars?

No.

The names of three ships?

No.

Three yachts?

He didn’t bother answering her. Maybe she should aim lower.

Three boats?

That earned her another tired and exasperated sigh.

Ms. Bradshaw. I’m a busy man. I don’t have the time to partake in this trivial guessing game.

Okay, last time, I promise. I have to guess this right. She had totally turned it into a game of ‘guessing what your dead great aunt left ya’ and she wanted to win. They’re three dogs, aren’t they? French poodles or Chihuahuas probably. I know I’m right this time. She sat back in the chair, deflated. She could barely take care of herself. How was she going to take care of three dogs?

Ms. Bradshaw, are you quite all right?

Actually, no. I mean, I woke up this morning and, of all days, decided to break in a new pair of shoes but then forgot to wrap my third and fourth toe in a band-aid—that trick works, tell your wife—but that was a colossal oversight on my part because, holy Louboutin, I basically limped my way to the office. But lucky for me, Kelly had some band-aids in the first aid kit, so shoe crisis promptly averted. She drew her finger across her forehead and whistled.

"But then I spilled coffee on the new carpet... It’s beige and it's brand new, and I was probably going to get fired for it, so I had to go on my knees to scrub the stain out, but that left a big wet patch in the middle of the floor, so I had to move my desk to the middle of the floor, and then I had to explain to my boss that my Zen Senses said I should sit there for the day. I’m a web designer, by the way.

Then I ordered a sandwich from the cafeteria downstairs, and it was so soggy it dripped lettuce juice, but that’s because the cafeteria lady has a target on my back. She set me up on a date with her nephew that didn’t go too well because he made me pay for dinner for him and his two buddies, left with the waitress, then told his aunt I was rude to him. Now my favorite sandwich will forever be a soggy mess, and then in the middle of eating that same sandwich—don't judge me, I was hungry—I got a call from you to tell me that I had a great aunt on my father’s side who I didn’t even know existed, like ever, had died, put me in her will, and left me three dogs.

Rayne suspended her breath and then released it with a loud, unladylike whoosh, an embarrassed flush lighting up her cheeks.

You were asking me about my mental health when you asked if I was all right, she said sheepishly. Not how my day went. Sorry, she added in a small voice. For a tiny moment, she thought she detected a smile playing on the solicitor’s lips, but no, she had clearly imagined that because it disappeared from his face as quickly as it had arrived.

But it was true. William Lester Montgomery the Third—as the gold plaque on his desk said—had no idea what she was going through. Her parents had been orphans, both raised in foster care. Not a single relative on both sides of her parents ever came to visit them, not in all the fourteen years that she had known them before a tragic car accident took their lives.

Up until the age of 18, Rayne lived with her mother's best friend before having to support herself. And then, out of nowhere, she discovered her dad had a rich great-aunt who had named Rayne in her will.

She didn’t know how to react or respond. Should she be mourning the loss of someone she didn’t know existed until this morning? Should she be crying tears of grief? She had no idea how to handle it all. And now she was going to inherit three dogs.

No, I don’t think I’m all right, Mr. Montgomery.

Beckett King, Aston Lane, and Keaton Reed are not houses, islands, horses, boats, or dogs. They’re men. Your late aunt Marjorie bequeathed you three men.

Men? Rayne frowned. Was that French for something else? Please, just tell me what men are, Mr. Montgomery.

Really, Ms. Bradshaw? He had reached the end of his law degree with her; it was written clearly in his pinched expression.

Wait... You mean men as in Homo sapiens?

There is no other kind of man, Ms. Bradshaw.

But—

Your aunt, Marjorie Malcolm Bradshaw, bequeathed to you in her will the possession of one Beckett King, one Aston Lane, and one Keaton Reed.

Okay, this is a joke. Right? Marjorie Malcolm Bradshaw isn’t my aunt because she doesn’t exist. This is all just for silly giggles, right? A social experiment is being recorded to capture my reaction.

Nice one. You got me there. She rose from the chair, looking around for hidden cameras.

"Ms. Bradshaw, do I look like the kind of man who will clap his hands and say, ‘gotcha you, smile for the camera?’"

I mean, you could be a really good actor. You could—

Before you embark on another set of outlandish reasons to validate your conjectures, since I’m familiar with the train wreck your thoughts seem to take, allow me to speed up the process for you. I am not being paid by the hour, and I’d like to conclude this business at once.

Right, Rayne sank back in the chair, feeling properly chastised. But then she sprang up to her feet again.

"Oh, my god. Am I going to be their guardian? You should know Mr. Montgomery. I couldn’t even take care of them when I thought they were Chihuahuas. I absolutely can’t take care of them