Page 45 of Escorting the Bodyguard
Ford
Eighteen Months Later…
The apartment lookslike a rainbow exploded.
Pastel balloons hang from every available surface, ribbons drifting low. There’s frosting smeared on the coffee table, wrapping paper scattered across the hardwood floor, and a high chair pushed against the kitchen island.
And in the center of it all, my one-year-old daughter, Ruby, sits in her frilly pink dress, methodically destroying a piece of birthday cake with the focused determination of a demolition expert.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her work. She’s got Gemma’s copper hair, though it’s still baby-fine and sticking up at odd angles. Her gray eyes—all mine—are completely focused on the important task of getting as much frosting on her face as humanly possible.
A year and a half ago, I was convinced I was too broken for this. Too damaged. Too dangerous.
Now Ruby squeals and claps her frosting-covered hands, sending cake flying. I can’t stop grinning like an idiot.
“Ford, you’re supposed to be helping with the tunnel, not standing there looking sentimental,” Rae calls from the living room, where she’s crouched next to what’s supposed to be a collapsible play tunnel but looks more like abstract art.
I walk over, dropping to my knees in the middle of a twisted mess of colorful fabric and plastic poles.
Rae made me work for it. She was protective of Gemma, rightfully so. Took months for her to warm up, even after I proposed and we had our small ceremony in Central Park. But now she gives me hell like I’m her annoying little brother.
“This thing came with instructions, right?”
“Allegedly.” Rae holds up a piece of paper covered in wordless diagrams. “But I think they were written by someone who’s never actually tried to assemble one of these things.”
JJ’s wife Keisha appears with her camera, snapping photos of our struggle. “This is going in the album as ‘The Great Tunnel Disaster of 2026.’”
“At least make sure you get my good side,” I mutter, trying to figure out which end is supposed to connect to what.
Victoria glides over with her usual elegance, holding a glass of wine and watching our architectural failures with amusement.
“Perhaps you should stick to what you’re good at, Ford,” she says, and even her posh accent doesn’t soften the burn. “How is the business going, by the way? We miss your skills since you stepped back from fieldwork.”
“Thanks. It’s been good focusing on the business side,” I say, finally getting two pieces of the tunnel to connect.
“He’s being modest,” JJ jumps in from across the room, grinning. “Ford’s tripled our client base in the last year. We just opened a second office in DC.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “It’s not that impressive.”
“Not impressive?” JJ laughs. “You landed three Fortune 500 contracts in six months. Turns out my partner’s got a head for business strategy. Who knew?”
“I always suspected you were wasted in the field,” Victoria says with approval. “Much better suited to running an empire than dodging bullets.”
Keisha drops a paper crown on my head before I can respond. It’s bright yellow with “Birthday Girl’s Daddy” written in glittery pink letters. I catch JJ trying not to laugh.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He grins. “But if someone had told me two years ago that Ford Lawson would be sitting on the floor wearing a tiara and losing a fight with a children’s toy, I would’ve checked them into a psychiatric facility.”
I adjust the crown so it’s not sliding over my eyes. “It’s not a tiara.”
“Right. My mistake.”
From the kitchen, Ruby lets out a shriek of pure joy, followed by what sounds like a plate hitting the floor. We all turn to look, and she’s holding up both hands, fingers spread wide, cake dripping from every digit like she’s showing off her latest masterpiece.
“I think she’s done,” Gemma says, appearing from the kitchen with a towel. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and there’s a smear of frosting on her cheek. She looks beautiful and slightly frazzled and completely in her element.
“Done with it, or declared war on it?” JJ asks, joining our little group.
