Page 146 of The Bodyguard Situation

“Yes,” he agrees.

“The world knows the truth now,” I say, my throat tightening.

His lips brush my temple. “This is his legacy.”

I pull away from him. “Justice has been served. Thankfully.”

“You’re free, Harp. Billie is too.”

“Only because of you. I’m so thankful.” I fall against him again.

My fingers slide under the hem of his shirt to feel the warm, steady rhythm of his heartbeat because right now, Brody is all that matters. Not the past. Not the pain.

Just this. Just us. And the life we’re building together.

38

BRODY

When my phone rapidly buzzes on the counter, I’m mid-bite of an over-toasted bagel that Harper cooked for me for breakfast. She tried, so I’ll eat it with a smile.

One look at the screen, and I know something’s up. Weston’s name flashes across it, his message in all caps, like he’s already yelling through the text before I’ve even opened it.

Weston

IT’S HAPPENING!!!!

Weston

EASTON’S LOST HIS DAMN MIND!

Weston

BUT ALSO LEXI’S GIVING BIRTH. BRING CHAMPAGNE! FUCK IT, BRING BOURBON!

I blink, reread it once, then twice. “Harp,” I call out toward the hallway, “Lexi’s in labor.”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by the unmistakable thump of Harper’s feet scrambling across hardwood. She appears in the doorway a second later, still barefoot, still brushing her hair back from her face, eyes wide with excitement. “Now?”

“Now,” I say, grabbing my keys. “Weston’s text was a full-blown emergency alert.”

She grins and disappears into the bedroom again. I hear drawers opening and the zip of a garment bag being yanked free. I finish my coffee in three gulps and slide my phone into my back pocket.

By the time she’s back, she’s wearing shorts, an oversize T-shirt, and the engagement ring that still makes my chest tight every time I see it catch the light.

“You ready?” I ask.

She pulls on her shoes. “I was born ready. But also, are we stopping for snacks? Because Easton’s going to stress-eat everything in sight.”

“I’m more worried about Billie trying to reorganize the hospital.”

“She will,” Harper mutters. “And she’ll do it in heels.”

We pile into the Range Rover and head for the hospital. The morning traffic is light, which feels like some divine favor. The group chat is blowing up, and our phones are buzzing nonstop with replies in the group thread.

Billie

Easton is hyperventilating. Weston is flirting with the anesthesiologist to get updates. God help us all.

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