Page 18 of Escorting the Bodyguard
I get up, tug my shorts back into place, and walk out.
Gemma doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to stop me. That almost makes it worse.
Her scent clings to me. The taste of her remains in my mouth. It feels like something I should be able to shake off.
But I can’t.
In the surveillance room, I shut the door and lean my forehead against the cool metal cabinet.
Try to remember how to breathe.
Convince myself this is still just a job.
That I don’t already want more than I should.
6
Gemma
I’ve beenawake for three hours sketching, moving from bras to camisoles to corsets, and none of the designs are working the way I want them to.
Which is fitting, because nothing’s been working the way I want it to since Ford and I crossed that line four days ago.
My pencil moves across the page in frustrated strokes as I try to get the proportions right on what should be a simple bustier design. This started years ago because I was sick of lingerie that either cut off circulation or offered zero support—expensive pieces that looked gorgeous on mannequins but felt like medieval torture devices on actual women with real bodies.
Somewhere along the way, sketching solutions turned into something that felt like mine. Something I could control.
Right now, though, even my own hobby is betraying me.
Ford appears in the kitchen doorway, moving with his usual silent efficiency. He’s already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted gray Henley that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders.
His hair is slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it, and I make myself look back at my sketch before I start thinking about what it would feel like to do the same.
He looks like he got maybe three hours of sleep. Another night spent avoiding our shared bed until I was out cold.
We navigate around each other in the small kitchen with careful politeness, like strangers sharing a hotel breakfast buffet instead of two people who’ve seen each other naked. He makes coffee and toast. I pretend to be absorbed in my sketch. It’s a routine we’ve fallen into over the last few days, and it’s starting to wear me down.
From the corner of my eye, I see him glance at my sketchbook. The drawing is half-finished, probably looks like random curves and measurements to him. He doesn’t ask. Just pours his coffee and grabs bread from the counter.
The silence eats at me. Every clink of ceramic, every soft hiss of the machine, grates against my nerves. I grip my pencil tighter and stare at the mess of lines in front of me.
I’ve always been good at reading rooms, at making myself easy to be around. It’s a survival skill I perfected long before I started working for Elite Companions. Smile, be agreeable, don’t make waves. Keep everyone comfortable.
But this polite distance? Afterthat night? I’ve never had to navigate a morning after, let alone four of them. With clients, they leave or I do.
But Ford isn’t a client, and neither of us is going anywhere.
Ford is methodically buttering his toast, putting on such a performance of normalcy that I want to scream. Part of me wants to just ask him what we’re doing here, why he pulled away like I’d burned him. The other part doesn’t want to be the one who makes this more complicated than it already is.
I close the sketchbook with more force than necessary and start digging through my purse for my phone. Maybe my bestfriend Rae texted. Maybe Victoria has an update about Tim. Maybe?—
My fingers close around something small and cylindrical, and I pull out the travel-sized pepper spray I’d forgotten was in there. Pink and compact, it looks more like expensive lip gloss than a weapon.
An idea hits me.
If I can’t get him to talk to me as Ford-the-man-I-slept-with, maybe I can get him to engage as Ford-the-bodyguard. Not exactly mature, but I’m desperate to break this suffocating politeness between us.
“Ford?” I hold up the pepper spray, twirling it between my fingers like it’s a party favor. “Think you could show me how to use this? Just in case?”
