Page 9 of Escorting the Bodyguard
She arranges fresh flowers—where the hell did she get flowers?—in a water glass and wipes down already-clean counters. Like she can’t help but improve any space she occupies.
A few minutes later, she’s settled at the kitchen island painting her nails a deep red when her phone buzzes. She answers it, phone wedged between her shoulder and ear while she continues with the nail polish.
“No, I’m fine, just lying low for a few days,” she says into the phone, then pauses to blow on her nails. “Yes, I know it’s sudden... No, I can’t really explain right now...”
I shouldn’t be listening. Should give her privacy. But her voice carries, and I find myself paying attention to the cadence of her words, the way her tone shifts when she’s being evasive.
When she hangs up, she sets the phone aside and continues with her nails, that soft humming resuming. She seems at ease, as if being in a safehouse with a man she barely knows is just another Tuesday.
Twenty minutes later, she appears in the surveillance room doorway holding a steaming mug. The room suddenly feels much smaller.
“I made coffee,” she says, setting it on my desk. “I’m guessing you’re a black coffee kind of guy. You have that whole ‘efficiency over comfort’ vibe going on.”
She’s close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something clean and floral that somehow manages to be both innocent and utterly distracting. When she sets the mug down, our fingers brush for a split second. The contact is electric, unexpected, and I catch the slight pause in her movement that tells me she felt it too.
“Good guess,” I manage, wrapping my hands around the mug to give them something to do.
“I’m very observant,” she says, a small smile playing at her lips. “I figured you’d need the caffeine if you’re planning to stay up all night watching those monitors.”
She glances at the bank of screens showing different angles of the property. “Anything happening?”
“Nothing. Which is perfect.”
“You really are an antisocial type, aren’t you?”
“I prefer things predictable. It keeps people alive.”
“Good thing I’m in safe hands then.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “I should let you work.”
I try to focus on the screens. Perimeter clear. Street quiet. No movement except for a neighbor walking their dog past the house.
My phone buzzes with a text from my business partner, JJ:Surveillance outside Gemma’s place just spotted Roberts. He was near the callbox like he was working up to something. One of our guys came around the corner and spooked him. He bailed before we could intercept.
I set the phone down and run a hand through my hair.
He wasn’t just watching this time. He was trying to get inside.
This is exactly how situations spiral: obsession that crosses a line, a guy too delusional to recognize boundaries until it’s too late.
I’ve seen how these cases go. By the time law enforcement takes stalking seriously, it’s usually because someone’s already been hurt.
I head to the living room to find Gemma. She’s curled up on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees and a bowl of red grapes in her hand, looking like she’s settled in for the evening. Her legs are tucked under her, and she’s wearing reading glasses that she quickly removes the moment she notices me watching.
“Roberts was spotted outside your apartment,” I tell her, settling into the chair across from her. “He was trying to get inside.”
Her hand pauses halfway to her mouth, a grape suspended between her fingers. For a moment, something flickers across her face. Not fear, exactly, but a tightening around her eyes that suggests the gravity of the situation isn’t lost on her.
“Did he get in?”
“No. One of our guys spooked him before he could do anything. He ran.”
She sets the bowl aside slowly, tension tightening her jaw. “Okay,” she says finally, voice a little too flat.
“You’re safe here,” I reassure her, keeping my voice steady. “We’ll find him.”
She nods once, then shifts, pulling herself back into motion.
“Good thing I stocked up on groceries,” she says with a wry edge.
