Page 12 of Protecting Hailey

Neither of us spoke, but it felt nice having someone next to me. Usually, I would take a break by this point and walk, but he stared straight ahead without even a bead of sweat or any hint of perspiration on his skin.

I stared at the top of the hill and dug deep for some extra motivation.

Ten minutes later, a cramp shot through my side and I slowed down to a walk, with both hands on my hips. After sucking in deep breath after deep breath, the pain receded.

“Are you okay?” he asked, watching my face. He looked genuinely concerned about my well-being.

“You know, I don’t even know your name.”

He blinked and shook his head. “Shit. Sorry.” Then he stretched out his hand. “The name is Christian. Christian Machado.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said and smiled.

“Shall we walk back home?”

I turned around and estimated the distance back to my place and groaned. “Yes, please.”

He chuckled, and we turned and walked the five miles toward my house.

“You’re in great shape. It’s not just your stamina. I can tell from your tight shirt, too.” I was fishing for his workout routine, but realized my comments sounded a little inappropriate. It sounded like I was hitting on my bodyguard. I groaned a little inside, embarrassed at my lack of tact.

Christian seemed unphased. “I work out every day. It’s important in my business. I may need to chase someone down or fight them off.”

“From what I felt last night, you’ll be fine.” My face reddened, hearing my slip. “I meant, saw, from what I saw last night. I didn’t feel your arms or anything. Well, of course, I felt your arms they were around my body, but I—"

He grinned, and I noticed his straight teeth over smooth lips. “I get it, Hailey. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Thank god, I was only making it worse.

By the time we reached my front door, sweat dripped down my back and neck. “I’m going to hop in the shower before heading over to the studio.”

“Me, too. I’ll meet you in the foyer in twenty minutes.”

I stared at his dry, perfect skin. He had great skin—nice color, perfect complexion. This man reminded me of those models I met at the Armani show in Milan last summer. Too good to be true. That proved to be the case with the models later in the evening. I was sure I would discover Christian’s faults soon enough.

For now, he was a good bodyguard. The best one I’d ever had. My other bodyguards were more concerned about their phones or their food. I still remember their coffee orders and which toppings they liked on their pizzas.

I showered and put on black sweatpants and a black hoodie and waited for Christian out front. He strode into the foyer, wearing a full navy suit and white shirt. The shirt had no crease in it and hugged his body.

Immediately, I felt underdressed.

Should I change?

I shook my head. No. This is what I always wore to the studio.

“Ready?” he asked, holding a set of keys as he waited by the front door.

As I walked up to him, I stretched out my hand. He grinned but gave me the keys, anyway. I stared at the warm metal and recognized the set for my red sports car. “How did you know?”

“From the shade of your lip gloss,” he said, staring down at my mouth.

I pressed my lips together and ran my tongue over the sticky substance. What did my lip gloss have to do with my car?

Men. I shrugged and followed him out the door.

***

My producer Tessa sat in front of the dials, mixing tracks as I walked into the downtown music studio. A Lakers baseball cap covered her short pink hair while large sunglasses covered her face.

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