Page 107 of Perfect Pitch

Here it is, the opening I’ve been waiting for. “Yes.”

“What?”

“I work in Missing Persons and Protective Services.”

“Following your uncle’s footsteps?”

“Maybe? I don’t know.” I give Austyn a rundown about my background on the force, being a beat cop, making detective early due to my specialty—domestic violence. I confess, “It was eating me alive to be unable to assist the victims.”

“And now you can,” she concludes. She asks, “So, I’m assuming the majority of your work is protective services based on the amount you travel.”

“Yes.” I wait for her to ask the next question—who is it? When she doesn’t, I volunteer, “The team I work on consists of twenty-six individuals, twenty-four hour a day surveillance. We monitor everything about this person’s life—mail, visitors, phone calls, even if they want to run out for coffee. Everything they do is high profile, so they have to be watched at all times.”

She visibly shudders. “I can’t imagine not being able to run out for a cup of coffee.”

I pull her tighter as I roar with laughter because, of course, that’s what my Austyn fixates on. “When my protectee behaves, it’s the doughnut situation. When he shakes us—which doesn’t happen as much as it used to—it hits the tabloids usually because he’s reported in the blogs for being so hot strolling around the city in his pajamas.”

But Austyn’s body jerks. “You... you’re not saying... no. That’s just not possible.”

“It’s fine, Beats. I asked for permission to tell you.”

Her head lifts, and I’m face-to-face with my boss’s eyes in the face of the woman whose body is curled trustingly atop mine. She whispers as if the walls will talk if they can hear us, “You’re a bodyguard for Beckett Miller?”

I brush my lips against hers before answering, “Yes. It’s been my only assignment since I started with the company.”

“Wow. Talk about a high-pressure gig.”

“Yeah. Every time he leaves his residence, we’re terrified.”

Her face takes a thoughtful cast. “I can see why someone with your background would be useful. High profile people get all sorts of threats made against them. I mean, look at Brittney Spears, Taylor Swift, Kendall Jenner, the Duchess of Sussex, they’ve all endured threats and stalkers.”

“Exactly this.”

“Can I ask a personal question about him?”

“Do I have the right not to answer?”

“Of course. Is he as nice as he appears?”

That one I can answer. “Extremely. In some ways, he’s as outrageous as they portray him in the press, but most people don’t know that he’s ridiculously generous as well.” I hope I’m planting seeds in her mind she’ll remember later.

“How so?”

I rattle off the numerous charities I know Beckett donates to and add, “He bought a condo the size of his penthouse for his agents to live in.”

An exaggerated blink. “He did what?”

“Kid you not, it’s a couple floors below him, but the place is easily six thousand square feet. Eight bedrooms for sleeping, six baths, full gym, great kitchen, and maid service that comes in twice a week.”

She raises her hand. I pretend to look around the room before calling on her. “Ms. Kensington, you have a question.”

“How do I become assigned to Beckett Miller’s detail, because that place sounds righteous.”

I roll Austyn to her back and remind her, “One day—someday soon, I predict—that’s going to be you needing the protection, Beats. You’re so damn talented.”

“But...” I lay a finger against her lips.

“No buts about it. No doubting your talent now.”

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