Page 37 of Escorting the Bodyguard
My body remembers what my heart is still trying to forget. And I hate that remembering still feels like wanting.
Everything gets packed efficiently: mannequins disassembled, display pieces wrapped and boxed, business cards gathered into neat stacks. Ford loads it all onto the provided cart without being asked, his movements economical and sure. When we’re finished, he pushes the cart toward the exit, and I follow, my emotions a tangled mess I can’t begin to sort through.
Outside, the late afternoon air is crisp with the promise of fall. I pull out my phone to call a cab, but his voice stops me.
“Can I drive you home?” His voice is careful, prepared for rejection.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hands still buried in his pockets.
I stare at him, torn between the safety of saying no and the desperate need for answers.
He walked away from our child once. What happens if he does it again? What happens if I let him close enough to hurt both of us?
But I need to know why he’s here. Why now.
Even if it breaks me all over again.
13
Ford
Gemma is absolutely glowing.
Pregnancy suits her in a way that knocks the breath out of me. She slides into the passenger seat of my Range Rover, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. There’s a softness to her features I don’t remember, a calm strength that hits me harder than I’m ready for.
She’s stunning. She’s carrying my child.
And I abandoned both of them.
“Where to?” I ask, unlocking my phone with fingers that aren’t quite steady.
She gives me her address—a street on the Upper East Side—and I punch it into the maps app. Neither of us speaks, the tension settling in like an extra passenger. I start the engine and pull into traffic, desperate for something safer than the truth.
“How did it feel?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road. “Seeing your work displayed like that?”
She’s quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Amazing, actually. Having buyers take my work seriously, asking about wholesale orders...” Her fingers trace the edge ofher purse strap. “I never thought stores would actually want to carry my designs.”
I watch confidence settle into her shoulders differently now. Less apologetic, more sure of herself. It’s not the polished performance I remember—this is something deeper. Something real.
“That’s incredible, Gemma. Your work is stunning. You should be proud.”
“I am.” It’s soft, but there’s weight behind it. Like she’s not used to claiming her own success.
As she talks, her hand drifts to her stomach. The simple gesture sends a sharp ache through my chest. Protective, instinctive, everything I should have been there for.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, nodding to her stomach.
She turns to look at me, and I can see her processing the shift in conversation.
“Tired,” she admits. “The morning sickness stopped, but now I’m just... constantly exhausted.”
“When are you due?”
“February.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I have my anatomy scan next week. They’ll tell me if it’s a boy or girl.”
She’s almost through the first trimester. I’ve already missed so much. Weeks of her body changing, growing our child. Appointments and milestones and moments I’ll never get back.
“Any complications? Everything okay with...?”
