Page 34 of Escorting the Bodyguard
I just sold my work to a legitimate buyer. Because it’s good. Because I know what I’m doing.
The morning continues with buyers examining my work, fellow designers stopping by to compliment my designs and ask about my aesthetic. Conversations that feel surreal and wonderful.
There’s no script here, no persona to maintain.
Just passion and knowledge and the quiet pride of creating something beautiful with my own hands.
I don’t need to prove I’m worth something. Just remember that I already am.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
My hand drifts to my stomach. Wherewe’resupposed to be.
I exhale slowly, letting the moment settle around me.
The lunch rush brings a lull, and I’m more tired than I expected—showcases are exhausting, but pregnancy adds a whole other layer. I brace one hand on the table, steadying myself.
I’m adjusting the display on one of my lace bodysuits when a girl about my age with purple-streaked hair approaches from the jewelry display across the aisle.
“I’ve been watching people’s reactions to your stuff all morning,” she says with a grin, nodding toward her booth of handmade jewelry. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. That silk piece has stopped traffic.”
“Thanks.” I glance at the camisole that’s gotten the most attention. “Though I can’t take full credit. The fabric makes all the difference.”
“Where’d you source it? Because that hand, that drape—” She reaches out to touch the silk, then stops herself. “Sorry, I’m a total fabric nerd. But seriously, this is couture quality.”
“Honestly? I have no idea.” I laugh, but it comes out a little shaky. “Someone’s been sending me materials. Anonymous gifts, no return address. The first package showed up not long after...” I pause, not wanting to explain the whole story. “After I made some big life changes.”
I remember how I’d nearly cried when I opened that first delivery. “The fabric choices are exactly what I would have picked if I could afford them. Italian silk, French lace, beautiful quality.”
“That’s incredible,” the jewelry designer says. “You have no theories?”
“I thought maybe my former boss at first, but she swore it wasn’t her. Asked my best friend, too, who just said maybe I had a secret admirer.”
I trace the silk’s edge, remembering how I’d actually interrogated Rae, desperate for answers.
For a wild second I’d even wondered if...but that thought is too painful to finish. Too impossible.
After all, if he cared enough to send silk, wouldn’t he care enough to stay?
“Eventually I decided to just be grateful.”
I gesture to my display. “Whoever it is, they’ve made this possible. I hope they know how much this has meant?—”
“I was hoping you’d like it.”
The voice stops me cold. Low, familiar.
My heart pauses, then starts again, hammering against my ribs. I know that voice. I know it like I know my own breathing.
Slowly, I turn around.
Ford.
Standing three feet away in dark jeans and a navy sweater, looking solid and real and impossible. His gray eyes are fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my knees weak, and there’s something different about his expression.
Softer, maybe. More open.
My breath catches in my throat. The noise of the showcase fades to white static as we stare at each other across the small space of my booth. A month of anger and hurt and missing him crashes over me all at once, followed immediately by hope so fierce it’s painful.
