Page 23 of Escorting the Bodyguard
“When my father left, she blamed us both.” My voice gets quieter. “Said if we’d been better... thinner, prettier, less trouble... maybe he would’ve stayed.”
I pause, swallowing hard.
“She spent the rest of her life trying to be perfect for the next guy. And the next one. I just...I learned that you had to earn it, you know? That if someone was going to stick around, you had to make it worth their while.”
Ford’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his fingers intertwining with mine.
“I guess I’ve always felt like...” I struggle for the words. “Like if someone saw the real me—when I’m tired or messy or not put together—they’d realize I’m not worth the effort.”
We lie facing each other, breaths mingling, and it’s the most intimate moment we’ve shared.
“You’re enough.” Ford’s voice is rough. “Just like this. Just you.”
Some small door inside me creaks open, and light starts to spill in.
Just you.Like that’s not the thing I’ve spent my entire adult life being convinced isn’t sufficient.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all. When he reaches over and brushes a strand of damp hair away from my face, his touch is gentler than I’ve ever felt it.
We drift toward sleep like that—close enough to feel each other’s warmth, connected in a way that feels entirely new.
Hovering on the edge of dreams, feeling safe and seen in a way I’ve never experienced, I’m almost gone when I hear Ford whisper something in the darkness.
The words are too quiet to catch, but the tone—soft, stunned, almost reverent—speaks directly to my heart.
8
Ford
“You,Gemma Quinn, caffeine addict of the highest order, are telling me you don’t want coffee?” I ask, still holding out the mug.
She waves it off with a distracted smile. “Not feeling it today.”
In the month we’ve been living together, she’s never once turned down coffee. She drinks it black, like medicine, gets this little satisfied sigh after the first sip. It’s become part of our morning routine—I make it, she drinks it, we settle into the day.
“You sure? It’s that Ethiopian single-origin you had me order from Blue Bottle.”
“I’m sure.” She rubs her temples. “I think I might be coming down with something. Maybe I’ll just go lie down for a bit.”
Something’s off. She went to bed early last night, barely touched dinner, and now this. People in my line of work notice patterns.
“Okay.” I set the mug on the counter. “Get some rest.”
She disappears into the bedroom, and I’m left standing in the kitchen with cooling coffee and a nagging feeling I can’t shake.
The last few days have been different between us. Softer. I’ve been sleeping without a shirt in the dark, small progress aftershe saw my scars and didn’t flinch. She’s been coming to bed without makeup more often, letting me see her real face. We’ve been learning each other’s edges, falling into a pattern that feels dangerous and addictive.
Which makes her current distance feel more pronounced.
I shake it off and head for the shower. Probably nothing. People have off days.
Twenty minutes later, I’m toweling off when my phone rings. JJ’s name flashes on the screen.
“Tell me you have good news.”
“Not exactly. Tim’s credit card pinged again this morning. Gas station about six blocks from your location.”
My blood runs cold. “Six blocks?”
