Page 7 of Her Cruel Bodyguard

“Hmm,” he takes a turn, his poise enigmatic behind the steering wheel, his grumpiness easily worn as the suit he has on.

“Hmm,” I huff back at him, but he isn’t fazed.

“If we are going to do this…”

He stops in front of a coffee shop and turns the car off as he climbs out, locking me inside to dash into the store with long, unhurried strides.

Classic Fabio.

I clamp my lips, the urge to throw tantrums and bang my head against the dun interior of the car particularly intense. How can he be so unhinged? I want what he is having. Whatever it is that gives him this much ability to stay indifferent.

Perhaps I bore him by acting like a girl instead of a woman. Could that be it? Should I act like Vittoria? We do not have a big age difference but she acts way older. Perhaps I can try that. I may come off as a woman to Fabio and he can maybe, I don’t know, look at me like one for the first time never.

He struts out with two cups of coffee in hand, a ray of the sun kissing his skin the way I want to, if only he would let me. All over. I roll my eyes at my pathetic thinking.

I put my eyes on the camera bag in my lap and pretend I haven't been staring at him while he stomps back to the car, shaking his shoulders to fix his suit jacket, which I'm sure hides a holster with loaded guns.

After getting comfortable in the car, he places one cup of coffee in the cup holder and offers me the second one.

“No, thanks,” I roll my eyes again, salivating for a taste of the coffee but also pumped with vexation to be tough and nonchalant.

He keeps his hand up, an indication that we will stay here forever unless I accept the coffee. I won’t risk it. I have a lecture I must not be late for. I pluck the coffee from his hand, and I do it a little too snappily, making some of it spill on the sleeve of his suit jacket and my wrist.

I wince from the sharp burn but quickly try to focus on his coffee-dotted sleeve. He holds my hand between his thumb and index finger as I try to mop off the stained mark. His eyes meet mine, and I whimper slightly atthe way he flips my wrist to look at where the coffee got on me. Shudder. Hot.

“I will be careful next time,” I try for a poker face, and his eyebrows shoot up. “I am late for class,” I try to retrieve my hand, but that grip seems to be firmer than I had realized, and the sting I now feel has nothing to do with the coffee. He uses his sleeve to dab on my wrist ever so gently.

I gulp, wanting to scream at him for doing things like this but wanting me to act robotic like he does and tune everything out. His thumb brushes my skin before he pulls back and sits straight in his seat. The brush is quick, but I feel the stroke deep in my core.

He resumes driving while I recline in my seat and focus on drinking the creamy coffee he has gotten me.

Slightly tolerable grump.

Fabio stops in front of my lecture hall, picks up the second cup of coffee, and lifts it to me. I just finished the first, and it’s chest-constricting to see he remembers my coffee routine for lectures—one on the road, another when in class.

“Thank you,” I accept the coffee, open the door, and bounce out, making sure to leave the door open so he comes out to close it—my little way of getting back at him for keeping quiet.

The warm air licks my skin, freeing me from all of Fabio’s shackles as I take the long walk amidst busy students hurrying for classes into my lecture hall.

People are settling down as I walk in, my eyes searching for my friend and study partner, Gloria. I see her slipping into a seat after the first row of seats. She wants to major in nature photography, and it’s no wonder she always dresses like plants. Today, the print is of molds on her white T-shirt and her wild, nappy curls twisted chaotically on her head. She turns, glinting black eyes at me, and smiles eagerly. I’m about to mirror her smile when someone intersects me—a quite tall someone.

“Sorry,” I mutter and motion to go in the other direction, but he steps towards it. “Sorry,” I try the other direction, and he does the same. I lift my eyes and see the smiling face of a stranger.

“Took you long enough to look up,” his voice is a boyish baritone. “Hi,” his smile broadens, but I keep a straight face, some of Fabio’s grumpiness smeared into my mood.

“Hi,” I sip my coffee and look over his shoulder at Gloria, who is now winking at me.

“You must be Eva Teso,” he doesn't ask, so I don’t answer. “I am Paul.” He stretches out his hand but retrieves it as he sees my strap bag across my shoulder housing my laptop, my camera bag in one hand, and my cup of coffee, that I am holding like some precious stone Fabio traveled seven seas to get for me.

“Hi, Paul,” I manage a smile.

“I asked around for the best student, and everyone pointed to you,” he steps aside. “Your depth of field is magnetic; I checked some of your work but your friend,” he nods in Gloria’s direction, “Won’t let anything slip past,” he starts to move.

I step behind him, his shoulders bunching in his gray T-shirt. He appears simple: T-shirt, black jeans, and black boots. His chestnut-colored hair is tossed on his head, and his dark coffee-brown eyes are a little sunken in his eye sockets.

“Do me the honors, our very own Julia Margaret,” he points at a row behind Gloria. “Please, I need to tag along with the most talented student before I become a starving artist.”

I manage to squeeze out a chuckle, and then shake my head to wriggle Fabio’s stench of sullenness off me. It’s been one morning only and I feel more like him than myself. I wonder how I will feel by the end of this semester or by the end of however long he keeps driving me to school.

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