Page 36 of Escorting the Bodyguard
“Can I come back then? Please?”
I stare at him for a long moment, my heart hammering against my ribs. Part of me wants to say no, to protect myself from whatever this is. To walk away before he can leave me again. But another part of me—the part that’s been missing him every single day despite everything—needs answers.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I understand if you don’t want to see me. But I’d like to explain?—”
I should say no. I should protect myself from whatever this is going to cost me.
“Fine.” I hate that I’m saying yes. “Five o’clock.”
What am I doing?
He broke me once already. Letting him try again feels like volunteering for a second hit.
Ford’s shoulders relax, like he’d been bracing for rejection. He nods once, looking like he wants to say more but doesn’t. Instead, he just turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd of vendors and buyers like he was never here at all.
I stand there for a moment after he leaves, hands trembling as I straighten price tags that don’t need straightening and adjust displays that are already perfect. My pulse is still racing, my chest tight with emotions I can’t name.
He’s been helping from a distance. But helping doesn’t erase leaving.
The jewelry designer reappears at my elbow, clearly having witnessed the whole exchange. “So... fabric mystery solved?”
“Yeah,” I manage, still processing everything. “It’s... a long story.”
“Ah. The best ones usually are.” She gives me a knowing look, studying my face with kind concern. “You going to be okay?”
“Eventually.” My voice wavers, betraying more than I want it to.
“Want some chocolate? I’ve got emergency stash in my purse.”
“God, yes,” I say, accepting the offered piece gratefully. The sweetness helps ground me, gives me something concrete to focus on besides the emotional bomb Ford just dropped in the middle of my triumph.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of forced normalcy. Two more wholesale inquiries, including one from a boutique chain in SoHo that’s interested in exclusive designs for their fall collection. I sell almost all my individual pieces. I exchange contact information with three other designers, tentative plans forming for potential collaborations.
Through it all, Ford’s words echo in my head, leaving me unsettled and confused.You deserved to have your dream. Even if I couldn’t be part of it.
He bought me silk and abandoned our baby. How is that supposed to make sense?
I catch myself checking the time every few minutes, my stomach knotting tighter as five o’clock approaches. Part of mehopes he won’t come back. Part of me is desperate to hear what he has to say. And underneath it all, I’m hoping he’ll have answers that make sense of why he left me when I needed him most.
At exactly five o’clock, Ford appears beside my booth as I’m starting to pack up.
“I can handle this myself,” I say, but my voice lacks any real bite. I’m too tired for anger, too confused for hostility. First trimester fatigue is real, and emotional exhaustion on top of it is crushing.
“I know you can.” He starts carefully folding my sample pieces anyway, his hands gentle and reverent as he wraps each garment in tissue paper. “But you don’t have to.”
I watch him handle my work with a kind of awe that confuses me. His fingers trace the seams I spent hours perfecting, smooth the lace I agonized over choosing. There’s something almost worshipful in the way he touches the pieces, like he understands exactly how much of myself I’ve poured into each one.
He doesn’t get to appreciate my work. Not when he walked away from everything else about me.
We move in careful silence, tension threaded through every shift and gesture.
When he reaches across me for a box, his arm brushes mine, and I have to step back. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends heat shooting through me that I absolutely cannot afford to feel.
He looks different. Older, maybe. Tired in a way that makes me ache and resent him at the same time.
It’s been over a month since I’ve been this close. Since I’ve smelled that familiar mix of cedarwood and clean skin and something darker that’s just him.
