Page 10 of Escorting the Bodyguard
She exhales, then smooths her hands down her sweater. When she looks at me again, there’s a flicker of determination behind the composure.
“Well. I need something to do with my hands, or I’ll start stress-cleaning the grout.” She moves to close her laptop and rises from the couch. When she stretches, her sweater pulls tight across her chest, and I drag my gaze to the wall behind her instead.
“I got ingredients for pasta,” she says. “Nothing elaborate, but better than whatever frozen nightmare you probably had planned.”
“You don’t need to cook. We can get takeout?—”
“I know I don’t need to.” She gives me a look that’s part amusement, part challenge. “I want to. There’s a difference.”
She heads toward the kitchen. “Besides,” she adds, “I’m a stress cook. Keeping my hands busy keeps my mind quiet.”
“Fine.” I end up at the kitchen island, ostensibly reviewing case files on my laptop but mostly watching her move.
She’s graceful, chopping garlic, reaching for spices, humming under her breath. I’m so caught up in it that I don’t notice her glance back until it’s too late. Our eyes meet.
She doesn’t say anything—just lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow, like she’s clocked me and is letting it slide.
I look back at the screen, pretending to scroll.
“Case files that compelling?” she asks lightly, not even turning around.
“Riveting,” I say, and sip my drink like it can cover the heat rising in my neck.
She glances over with a wry smile. “Do you ever get bored?”
“I’m paid very well to not be bored.”
“Right. Of course.” She stirs the garlic, and the sizzling fills the brief silence. “What’s the most interesting case you’ve worked? Strangest client, I guess?”
I think about it while she cooks. “There was a tech billionaire with an emotional support peacock.”
She blinks. “You’re lying.”
“Wish I was.”
Her laugh softens something in my chest.
“What about you?” I ask. “I assume your work attracts some interesting personalities too.”
She pauses in her chopping, glancing up with a raised eyebrow. “Interesting is one way to put it. There was this CEO who booked me for dinner at Daniel, which is about as fancy as it gets. I’m expecting the usual: show me off to impress business contacts, stroke his ego, maybe end up in his penthouse afterward.”
She adds tomatoes to the pan, and the smell starts filling the kitchen. “Instead, he spent two hours explaining his collection of vintage doorknobs with the kind of passion most people reserve for their children. Two hours, Ford. About doorknobs. I learned more about brass patina than I ever wanted to know.”
The way she says my name does something to my pulse, and I have to break eye contact.
“You wouldn’t believe some of the characters I end up with,” She shakes her head. “I’ve got enough material to write a novel.”
Something ugly slithers in my chest at the thought of her with clients. I know I’m the one who asked about her work, but hearing about it makes me feel something I don’t want toexamine too closely. I write it off as protective instinct, but the edge feels personal in a way that makes me uncomfortable.
She reaches up to the high cabinet for olive oil, and I watch her stretch toward the shelf, noting the way her leggings hug her generous curves. When she wobbles slightly, I cross the kitchen in two strides and steady her with my hands at her waist.
Suddenly we’re sharing the same small space, her back pressed against my chest. She’s warmer than I expected, softer, and for a moment neither of us moves. She tilts her head to look up at me, and I can see the gold flecks in her green eyes, count the individual lashes that frame them.
This close, I can see things her makeup doesn’t quite hide. The faint line of a scar through her left eyebrow. The tiny mole just below her right ear that’s probably only visible when her hair is pulled back.
“Thanks,” she says softly, but she doesn’t immediately move away.
I should step back. Put professional distance between us. But I don’t want to.
