Our Wallflower Queen Signed Paperback

This Wallflower Queen needs to be praised like the good girl she is.

I’m the good twin, the quiet one, the one who hides in the shadows. I never draw attention to myself, never cause my family concern, and most people forget I exist.

My sister is my polar opposite in every way. Loud and in the spotlight, she likes to let people believe she’s the bad twin, but I know better.

So when I’m mistaken for her, kidnapped and thrust into the spotlight, my three gorgeous rescuers, now bodyguards, are my only protection from the attention I’ve avoided my entire life—and suddenly, I want to be the bad twin.

I want THEIR attention.

I want THEIR touch.

I want THEIR praise.

We were hired to rescue and protect the twenty-two year old kidnapped daughter of a billionaire, but none of us expected to fall in love.

She’s everything we’ve been looking for and more, but we’re on the job with a timid and traumatized client, and the number one rule as a bodyguard is Don’t lust after the Client. Although left unstated, we’re pretty sure rule number two is Don’t f^ck the Client. But the more time we spend together, the harder it is to ignore our feelings, especially as she becomes more dependent upon us, seeking the physical touch she never received growing up.

She wants our attention and she’s got it. But it’s more than that. Our good girl has been lonely her whole life—a quelled bird trapped in a gilded cage with no one to take care of her. We are the men to change that. And as soon as the threat on her life is dealt with, that’s what we aim to do.

She’s ours to protect, ours to cherish, ours to adore.

Even though it’s Saturday—a day where most people sleep in and girls my age nurse hangovers—for me, today starts like any other day. 

My alarm goes off at six am. I roll out of bed, put on a pair of yoga pants, a sports bra, and a baggy t-shirt—all from my sister’s athletic wear line, Krush Kruisers—and am jogging the neighborhood of our Barrington Hills estate by six-fifteen. Most days, this is a solitary experience because you can’t see my neighbors' houses from the road, and with the exception of the occasional passing car on their morning commute, I never run into anyone.

So, when an older model tan van passes by, I take notice—even though I also dismiss them as workmen of one kind or another. Maybe they’re pool cleaners or carpenters or masonry specialists? Most of the houses in this area are less than twenty years old, but bored housewives remodel all the time. 

It’s when the van passes again and then pulls over at the end of the lane that I start to worry. Slowing down, I pull my phone out of my yoga pants. At the same time, the van makes an erratic U-turn and drives right at me. I turn back to my house and run as fast as possible. I’m a little over a mile away from home with no driveways or trees to dash into, which means I’m utterly defenseless when the van screeches to a stop beside me and I’m tackled and thrown into the ornate bushes lining the road. 

A man twice my size spins me on my back and grabs hold of my left wrist. When he moves for the right one, I fight with everything I have, kicking and flailing and trying to move his massive weight off me. Screaming for help, he lands a well-placed backhand to my cheek. Instantly, I fall limp—my bell thoroughly rung as stars and birdies and jewelry box ballerinas dance through my darkening tunnel vision. 

He throws my temporarily boneless form over his shoulder and tosses me mercilessly into the back of the van. 

The vehicle pulls another erratic U-turn, sending me and the big guy across the floorboards. 

Glancing around through unfocused eyes, I see the silhouette of a man sitting behind the steering wheel with a woman staring at me from the passenger seat. 

“Let me go,” I moan right before the scary man, with malice twisting his features, shoves a rag into my mouth. I try to push off the floor, but he holds me down face first and binds my wrists with ease. When he moves to my ankles, I flail, kicking and screaming around the foul cloth shoved in my mouth.

“Dope her,” the woman growls from the front seat.

He sits on me, easily pinning me with his strength, and with a quick prick, the world goes dark.

* * *

I come to with a horrific headache, the likes of which I have never before experienced. My eyes are swollen and puffy, and my mouth is thick and dry even though the dirty rag is gone. My body aches, but it’s only when I try to wipe the gunk out of my eyes that I realize I can’t move my arms or legs. 

Through haze-filled eyes, I take in my dank surroundings. I’m lying with my arms and legs tethered to a bed frame. There’s a window on one wall, but the curtains are drawn, and outside of the sliver of sunlight shining through, I have no idea as to what time it is. The room is dark, dusty, and filled with stale cigarette smoke and a rancid odor I can’t place.

A normal person would start screaming right now, hoping someone outside would hear and rescue them, but not me. I’ve gotten through life by keeping quiet and waiting for people to forget about me. 

The door swings open, and the scary man who tackled me fills the doorway. 

“You’re awake.” His voice is gravelly, like a lifelong smoker who inhales three packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day. 

I try to ball up into the fetal position, but it’s not going to happen with my arms and legs stretched wide. 

I don’t have to ask what they want—I know what they want. 

Money. 

With my father's enormous bank accounts, I’m sure they think they can get some, too. 

I say nothing.

The scary man walks toward me, opens a switchblade and, without a word, cuts my T-shirt from the top, ripping it open.

“Please don’t,” I finally rasp, unable to stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. 

I don’t want to be raped. It’s not necessary for them to achieve their financial goals. “You don’t have to do this. Tell me what you want, and I’m sure we can work something out.”

Behind him walks in the woman from the van. She sits at the edge of the bed and stares at me, shaking her head. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”

I stare back at her, searching my memory for some clue, but I don’t recognize her. “What would you like me to say?”

“An apology would be nice. Although, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to anyone, so I guess I’m not surprised that even in your current predicament, saying ‘I’m sorry’ wouldn’t cross your mind.”

I have no idea what this woman is talking about, but if an apology works, I can do that. “I’m sorry.” 

“Are you? I don’t think you are. I think, like everything else in your perfect little life, you see nothing wrong with what you did.”

I drop my eyes, my throat tightening in a sob. “I’m really, really sorry.”

“I think we should strip her,” the man says near my head. 

“Tell me why you’re sorry.” The woman holds up her hand to signal the man to hold that thought and raises her eyebrows in my direction.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The woman’s eyes narrow on me. “Oh my god, you’re such a fucking brat that you don’t know why I’m angry. I knew you were self-absorbed, but I had no idea your narcissism ran this deep.”

At this moment, I realize this isn’t about me. 

It’s not about my father’s money. 

They think they have Pip and have no idea who I am.

Nobody would ever call me self-absorbed. Half the time, people don’t know I exist, and the other half, people think I’m some wallflower to be walked on and taken advantage of—which in some ways I suppose is true. 

I’ve been hiding from people most of my life. Where my sister is the first one to jump on a table and dance for the cameras, I’m the one standing behind the curtains, trying to make sure nobody sees me. 

Quiet as a church mouse—that’s what they say.

The woman’s eyes scan my face, as if she’s cataloging every freckle, every imperfection, and then her eyes grow wide. “Epi?”

I steel my facial expressions, so as not to give away my little secret. “Yes?”

“Say my name.”

Doing everything I can to channel my sister’s bratty, sarcastic, beautifully unafraid persona, I click my tongue and say, “Kidnapper.”