Page 6 of Escorting the Bodyguard
I take the key card from Gemma and open the door, stepping in first to clear the entry.
The room is what I expected: executive suite, king bed with pristine white linens, sitting area with marble-topped table, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I move through it methodically, checking corners, vents, windows. Muscle memory from years of doing this exact thing.
But I can’t quite shake what just happened down in the bar.
She watches me from by the window, arms crossed, that knowing smile still playing at her lips like she’s holding onto a secret.
Her copper-red hair catches the city lights, and the way that turquoise dress hugs her lush curves makes it clear she’s never apologized for taking up space.
“You’re intense,” she says, tilting her head as I check the bathroom, her voice carrying that same teasing edge from before.
Most clients are reactive at this point. Panicked, apologetic, eager to prove they’re easy to work with. They hover and ask questions and generally get in the way while I get to work.
Not her. She doesn’t need my reassurance, doesn’t look to me to tell her she’s safe.
Part of me respects it. Part of me doesn’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t need saving.
She owns the suite like she paid for it herself, and there’s still that undercurrent of awareness crackling between us despite my attempt at professionalism. It’s distracting in a way I’m not used to, and I don’t like being off my game.
I finish checking the closet and move to the main window, testing the lock mechanism. As I lean to check the lower latch, my jacket pulls tight across my back—just enough to draw attention to the slight bulge beneath it.
“You old enough to carry that thing legally?” She nods toward my firearm, tone bone-dry.
“Twenty-seven,” I reply, still focused on the latch.
She snorts. “Huh.” A beat. “Guess the government really is handing out guns to children.”
I don’t rise to it. Let her think whatever she wants. As long as she listens when it counts.
I complete the sweep. Bathroom clear, bedroom clear, sitting area clear.
I turn back to find her at the mirror, reapplying lipstick that doesn’t need fixing. Her posture is perfect, her expression composed.
It’s too methodical to be vain. Too automatic to be for show. She’s not admiring her reflection, she’s fortifying it. Like someone who’s learned exactly how to look unshakeable.
I’ve seen that kind of armor before. Worn it, even.
That’s what unsettles me. It’s not just the beauty. It’s the familiarity.
“All clear,” I report, pulling my focus back to where it belongs. “No signs of tampering. I’ll be in the room next door for the night. Knock if you need anything.”
She caps the lipstick and turns to face me, eyebrow quirked again. “How reassuring,” she says.
“Was that sarcasm?”
“A little,” she admits. “You don’t seem like the pep talk type.”
“Good instincts. I’m more of the ‘don’t get murdered’ type.”
“So warm. So nurturing.”
The heat from downstairs is back, that same charge crackling between us, and I force myself to look away.
Her smile is perfectly polite now, but I catch the flicker of amusement underneath. “Well, thank you for the…thorough inspection.”
The emphasis she puts onthoroughmakes something twist low in my gut, but I nod once and head for the door.
I let myself out before I can overthink what any of this means.
