Page 11 of The Bodyguard

I look at Bodie through narrowed eyes. “You got somewhere you need to be?”

He stares back at me, his arms folded, that defensive stance definitely seems to be his go-to. “I was under the impression we were just here to collect your stuff, then I was to take you straight back to your parents.”

“Okay, I think we need to get a few things straight. My parents are not running my life, do you understand? I’m not a child. The reason you’re here is so that I can carry on with my life, as best I can, until whatever the hell is going on is over. I wasn’t aware you were also here to issue time limitations.”

He smiles slightly and drops his head, shaking it, and did he just laugh there? Seriously?

“I can tell you want to be here as much as Iwantyou to be here. You going to tell me I’m wrong?”

He slowly raises his gaze, his blue eyes once more meeting mine. “No. You’re not wrong.”

There’s a slight accent in his voice, and I’m leaning towards Scandinavian, something I’m more than familiar with given my father’s heritage. It might also explain Bodie’s blond hair and blue eyes, I don’t know. Am I not just stereotyping, slightly? And Christ knows why I’ve only just noticed his accent, but that’s probably because this is the most he’s spoken to me since he arrived.

“Shit! I forgot to check the cupboards for food.”

I head back through the living-room, back into the kitchen, and start checking the cupboards to see if there’s any food in there that’s in danger of going off while I’m not here. And of course he’s followed me.

“Checking I don’t make a break for it through the back door?” I’m aware I’m being overly sarcastic, but the enormity of this whole situation is beginning to dawn on me now, and I don’t like it. I don’t want it. My father asked me not to fight him on this but I’m not sure I can stick to that.

“I trust you.”

I turn around. “You don’t know me. How can you possibly trust me?”

He doesn’t answer that, because he can’t. Not really.

“Your accent… You’re not British.” Not a question.

“You noticed.”

“What brings you over here, then?”

“Work.”

He’s not missing a beat, his eyes fixed on mine, there isn’t a flicker of anything in his expression.

“Have you been in the UK long?”

“A few years.”

Looks like that’s all I’m getting, but, you know, it’s a start. “Okay.” I open the fridge and take out two bottles of beer, holding one out to him. “Want one?”

He shakes his head, and I shrug and put one back, opening mine and taking a long swig.

“You don’t drink?”

“Not while I’m working.”

He’s going to be a long time sober, then.

I head outside, into the back yard, which is basically a semi-circular patch of lawn and a paved patio with a small table and chairs and a variety of colourful pots dotted around the place. Very low maintenance, just how I like it. Pretty, but simple. And, yeah, again, he follows me. He really isn’t letting me out of his sight, is he? Probably means he’s damn good at his job, but I’m finding it hard to get used to being in such close proximity with a total stranger. He isn’t a friend, like the men who protect my father are to him. He isn’t a soldier, he isn’t loyal to the end, he's a stranger.

I lean back against the wall and fold my arms, my head cocked slightly. “So, you’re moving into the guest cottage, huh?”

“I need to be close, twenty-four-seven. Close enough to be on call, should the need arise.”

“You don’t have any family? People who miss you while you’re away doing – well,this.”

“I chose this job. I knew how it worked.”

---