Page 8 of Protector

That’s when her words hit me square in the chest. Inwardly, I cringe. I suppose it’s not a big deal, but wow, I’m working for a Millennial.

* * *

Once I get Shay inside, I take some time to survey the grounds and check out the security gate. I take some pics around the place, make some notes, and then head inside.

By the time I get inside, Shay has changed clothes, as if it were her first priority—getting comfortable. Now, she’s wearing tight black workout pants and a cropped mint-green shirt.

“Feel free to look around, do whatever you need to do,” she says, spreading her arms wide.

“It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Why don’t we head to the kitchen first and grab something to drink.”

I follow her without a word, passing my gaze left and right, taking it all in. The house is large and beautifully decorated but not so over-the-top it feels indulgent. The expansive wood flooring is intermittently covered by large white rugs, and we pass a living area with two sand-colored couches with brown accents and a tall fireplace flanked by two brown chairs.

Shay continues on to the kitchen while I stop short, two giant photos on the wall catching my attention. I’m almost breathless, staring up at a close-up of Shay, her face serious; it makes her look older than she is.

“I know. That’s so embarrassing,” I hear her say from the kitchen. “The one on the left is one of my first big covers.”

“Your eyes…” So expressive and blue, so blue it seems…

“No, it’s not photo-shopped.”

I look over at her, and she shrugs. “Everyone thinks that.” She holds up two bottles. “Tea or water? I also have sodas if you want that.”

“Water is fine, thanks.”

“The other one was from the launch of Taylor’s makeup line.”

As she makes her way over, I ask, “So is this how you met Taylor?” I head gesture to the photo.

“No, I knew her before that. It’s probably why I got that job.”

I cough out a laugh. “I seriously doubt that. Unless they got extremely lucky it worked out so well.”

“Thanks,” she says with a crooked grin, obviously catching me in a roundabout way of complimenting her.

“Is that what you really think, though? That you got it because you were friends and not because you’re beautiful and wear the makeup well?”

She pulls off the cap to her tea and takes a sip, eyeing me over the top, then says, “I don’t know…maybe it was a little of both. But I certainly didn’t want these on display here.” She rolls her eyes toward the framed images. “You’ll see. My place doesn’t have anything like this.”

“Aren’t you proud of the things you’re doing?”

“Some… I don’t need it staring me in the face, though. Do you hang up newspaper clippings of people you protect or of the bad guys you protect them from?”

I lift my brows and take my own sip to stall. “I suppose not.”

“I just want my place to be like a real home, not a showcase.” She starts to walk, and I follow her back to the living room and over to where you can see the back property through a floor-to-ceiling glass window.

A gardener works off in the distance, and I nod to him. “I’m going to need a list of every single person who has access to the house or the grounds, all the employees and their contact information. All the companies they deal with.”

“I’m sure my mom has all that. I’ll make sure she gets it to you.”

“I’ll need it for your place too.”

“My place is in Calabasas and less than half this size.” She laughs and sets her bottle down on a nearby table. “I don’t have people onstaff, but I’ll get a list to you of anyone I might have do work, especially the company working there now.”

I watch her hands as she twists her long hair into some sort of knot on her head, tucks in the end, and then, miraculously, it stays. Her neck is long and smooth, and I have to tear my eyes away. I clear my throat. “So, when you said ‘some’ things you’re proud of, what did you mean?”

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