Page 13 of Escorting the Bodyguard
But I do love how I look in this. Funny how I can love my body and still feel unready to be seen by Ford without a full face of makeup.
I should probably get dressed before he wakes up. The truth is, I barely slept. Every time Ford shifted beside me, I was wired into his presence. Of how solid and warm he felt just inches away. Of how badly I wanted to close that distance.
What’s wrong with me?
Now, in the morning light, I need protection. The kind that comes from immaculate eyeliner and clothes that fit just right.
I change into dark jeans and a soft cream-colored blouse, then finish up and head to the kitchen, determined to have everything perfect before he wakes. The coffee’s brewing, the kitchen spotless, my lipstick untouched. And still I catch myself smoothing my hair in the window reflection.
He’s not even in the room, Gemma.
Twenty minutes later, Ford emerges from the bedroom in rumpled clothes and messy hair, looking devastatingly attractive in that effortless way men have mastered.
His eyes find mine immediately, and there’s a beat of recognition. Sleeping in the same bed was more intense than either of us expected, but we’re both pretending it wasn’t.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep, and something in his tone makes my pulse skip.
“Coffee’s ready.” I gesture to the steaming mug on the counter. “Black, like your soul.”
He almost smiles at that. “Thanks.”
I’m tuned in to his every movement, every gesture. This domestic dance we’re doing feels both natural and terrifying. Like this is more than just protection detail, and we both know it.
I turn to grab plates from the cabinet, but my arm catches the handle of his mug, sending it flying. It doesn’t break—thank God—but coffee splashes everywhere, dark liquid spreading across the counter and dripping onto the floor.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” I immediately drop to my knees to clean it up. “I’m such a mess, I should have been more careful?—”
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m?—
It’s my mother’s voice I hear first.No one wants to deal with your mess, Gemma.
But I also hear years of being praised for staying pleasant, polished, easy. The perfect girl. The perfect date. Never the woman on her knees, panicking over a spilled mug.
“It’s just a mug,” Ford says, grabbing paper towels.
I’m still on the floor, frantically wiping at the spill. “I know you like things orderly—I can make you a fresh cup, I promise I’ll be more careful?—”
“Gemma.” Ford crouches down beside me, his hands stilling mine. “You don’t have to apologize for being human.”
His words are like a window opening in a room I forgot existed.
I’ve never heard that from a man before. In my experience, men want the polished version, the one who never needs anything, never causes problems, never makes mistakes. The kindness in his voice—without expectation, without agenda—hits me in a place I don’t have defenses for.
“I just...” I start, then stop. What am I supposed to say?I’ve spent my entire life performing perfect because imperfect girls get left behind.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles, and I realize my hands are shaking.
“It’s coffee, not blood,” he says. “And even if it was blood, it would still just be a mess. Fixable.”
I look up at him, and the softness in his expression undoes something in me. “You really don’t mind?”
“I really don’t mind.”
We clean up the rest of the coffee in comfortable silence, and I make him a fresh cup without commentary. But something’s shifted. There’s a crack in my armor now, and I’m not sure if I want to seal it up or let it widen.
We spend the morning in careful orbit around each other. Ford works on his laptop at the kitchen counter while I clean up from breakfast, then flip through a magazine I’m not really reading. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s loaded. Full of things we’re not saying.
Later that afternoon, I’m curled up on the couch with a book when the motion sensor alert starts shrieking. The sound cuts through the quiet like a knife, and my blood instantly turns to ice.
