Page 14 of Escorting the Bodyguard
Before I can process what’s happening, Ford’s already moving.
He grabs his gun from wherever he keeps it and rushes toward the surveillance room.
“Stay here,” he says over his shoulder, voice clipped and professional. “Don’t move until I say so.”
He disappears, and I hear him in the surveillance room, probably checking the cameras. Then the back door opens and closes, and suddenly the safehouse is silent except for my racing heart.
He’s outside. Checking the perimeter. And I’m alone.
What if it’s Tim? What if he found us?
Minutes tick by. Five. Ten. Where is he? My hands shake as I pull my knees to my chest, listening for any sound—footsteps, voices, anything. Every creak of the building makes me flinch. Every shadow seems to hide a threat.
What if something happened to Ford? What if Tim has a gun?
The silence presses against my eardrums, thick and wrong. Panic starts to claw at my throat.
When the back door finally opens again, I’m off the couch before I can think. Ford appears in the doorway, and the relief nearly knocks me over.
“Clear,” he says, and I’m already moving toward him.
I reach for him without thinking, needing something solid to anchor me.
He pulls me in without hesitation, arms locking tight around me like he’s physically shielding me from a threat that’s alreadygone. His hand cradles the back of my head, grounding, possessive. “You’re alright,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I should step back. I should thank him and create some appropriate distance. Instead, I melt into him, letting myself have this moment of being held, protected, cared for. His chest is solid against my cheek, his arms strong enough to make the whole world feel safer.
“Just a neighbor’s cat.” His voice is calm, steady. “No need to worry.”
I breathe in his scent and feel my pulse start to slow for the first time since the alarm sounded.
That’s when I feel it.Hispulse, hammering beneath the calm exterior. His body, solid but strung tight like a wire about to snap.
He seems calm. Controlled. But under my cheek, his heart is racing. He’s not as unaffected as he looks.
“You okay?” he asks, and something in his voice brushes against the part of me that’s still raw.
I nod against his shirt, but neither of us moves away. We stand there in the middle of the living room, holding each other like we’re the only solid things in an unstable world.
Later, I’m curled up on the couch with my sketchbook, trying to lose myself in drawing. It’s something I do when I’m anxious - letting my hands move across the paper while my mind settles. I’m working on a new lingerie design, something with delicate lace details, when Ford settles into the armchair across from me with his laptop. The quiet rhythm of his typing fills the silence. His phone buzzes occasionally and he checks it with the same focused attention he gives everything else.
He could easily do this work from the other room, but he’s here. Staying close. Making sure I’m not alone with my thoughts after the scare.
I don’t comment on it, but something warm ripples through me. He’s protecting me in ways that have nothing to do with guns or alarms. And it hits me. This might be the first time I’ve felt safe in someone’s presence.
The rest of the afternoon passes quietly. We eat a simple dinner together, make small talk about nothing important, both of us sticking to safe topics. But I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking, and every time our hands accidentally brush reaching for the salt or clearing plates, the air seems to thicken.
That night, I realize after my shower that I left my makeup bag in the bedroom. I assume Ford is still in the surveillance room doing his nightly security check, so I slip out of the bathroom in my pajamas, face clean and bare, hair damp and naturally curly.
I’m halfway to the dresser when I realize Ford is sitting on the edge of the bed, and we both freeze.
Panic flickers through me—the automatic response of someone caught unguarded. My mother’s voice echoes in my head:No one wants to see the messy parts, Gemma.I feel completely exposed, bare-faced, hair a disaster.
I start to turn back toward the bathroom, one hand automatically going to smooth my hair, but Ford’s voice stops me.
“I didn’t know your hair was curly.”
His voice is rougher than usual, and I freeze, acutely aware of how different I must look. No sleek styling, no makeup, just... me.
