Page 21 of Escorting the Bodyguard
I move through the exhibits slowly, reading every placard, pausing to admire the handwork in a 1920s beaded evening gown. When I find a display on corset construction, I can’t help myself.
“Look at this boning technique.” I lean closer to study the internal structure visible through the cutaway model. “See how they’ve curved the steel? Most people think corsets are just about restriction, but look—they’re creating the silhouette while still allowing movement. Pure engineering.”
Ford steps beside me, his scent slipping under my skin, setting off sparks deep in my gut. “You know a lot about this.”
“I read.” I glance up at him, suddenly self-conscious. “I mean, I’ve always been interested in how clothes are made. The construction of things.”
We move to the next exhibit, a collection of vintage sleepwear and lingerie. I pause in front of a silk negligee from the 1940s, studying the exquisite detailing.
“The craftsmanship is incredible,” I murmur, studying the impeccably-preserved piece. “French seams, hand-finished edges, completely enclosed. It probably took days to finish a single piece. I use a similar technique on the lingerie I make, though mine are nowhere near this level.”
Ford steps closer, his attention shifting from the display to me. “You make your own?”
“It’s just a hobby,” I say quickly, the automatic deflection rolling off my tongue. “I taught myself from YouTube tutorials, mostly. Trial and error.”
His gray eyes hold mine for a moment, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “Those silk pieces you wear to bed?”
I nod, suddenly hyperaware of his proximity.
“Trying to keep my hands off you in them is almost impossible.” His voice drops, rougher now. “I thought you were trying to kill me. They’re beautiful, and you look...” He pauses for a second, eyes dragging over me. “They fit you perfectly. Like they were made for you.”
“They were,” I say with a small laugh. “Literally. But it’s just for fun,” I downplay it, as usual. “Nothing serious.”
“That’s not nothing,” he says quietly, his gaze moving between me and the vintage negligee. “That’s talent.”
My throat bobs. The simple words hit me somewhere tender, somewhere I wasn’t prepared to be touched. I look away, not used to being seen this way, not used to having someone recognize that having something truly mine—something thatdoesn’t involve performing or pleasing or being what someone else needs—is rare and precious.
When was the last time someone valued what I make instead of what I do for them?
“Come on.” I clear my throat, needing to move past this moment. “Let’s see the rest.”
Back at the safehouse, I retreat to the bedroom for a nap.
The afternoon has left me feeling oddly drained. Maybe it’s just being out in public again after days of hiding, or maybe it’s the way Ford looked at me when I talked about my sewing. Like he was filing it away, adding it to whatever mental picture he’s building of me.
I curl up on top of the covers, still fully dressed, and let my eyes drift shut. Maybe an hour of sleep will help me feel more like myself again.
When I wake up, the light coming through the bedroom windows has that golden late-afternoon quality. I feel groggy and disoriented, my mouth cottony. I can hear the shower running in the bathroom—Ford must be cleaning up after his workout.
A wicked idea forms in my sleepy brain. We’ve been dancing around each other all day, tension building since the museum. We’ve christened every surface in this place except the shower. Maybe it’s time to do something about it.
I pad barefoot toward the bathroom. The door is closed, so I turn the handle quietly, planning to slip inside and surprise him.
But I’m the one who ends up surprised.
Through the clear glass shower door, I can see Ford’s back turned toward me—and the scars I never knew were there. Burnscars, from what I can tell, spreading across his lower back and wrapping around his side. Not fresh, but not old enough to have completely faded either. The skin is mottled, slightly raised in places, telling a story he’s never shared.
This is why he’s never let me touch him there. Why he keeps his shirt on, why he deflects when I try to explore.
The water streams over the damaged skin, and for a moment I’m frozen by the raw vulnerability of it. Not because the scars are ugly—they’re not. But because I can see how much he’s been hiding.
He must sense my presence because he turns, and when he sees me standing there, his whole body goes rigid.
“Jesus, Gemma.” His voice is sharp with surprise and something that might be embarrassment. “I thought you were asleep. Ever heard of knocking?”
Heat floods my face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—I was going to surprise you?—”
But then I see the way he’s positioning himself, trying to angle his back away from me even in the enclosed shower, and a tightness grips my throat.
