Page 8 of Escorting the Bodyguard
I crumple the note in my fist. “Pack your bag,” I say, already scanning the hallway behind her. “We’re leaving. Now.”
3
Ford
The safehouse sitsbetween two identical brownstones on a tree-lined Brooklyn street.
Everything looks exactly as it should: unremarkable, secure, quiet.
“So this is where we’re hiding out?” Gemma asks as I unlock the front door, her voice steady despite everything that’s happened in the last few hours.
“Temporarily.” I step inside first, immediately scanning the entry before stepping aside to let her enter.
This is what my company calls a bolt hole. A place we own in Carroll Gardens where clients can lay low when things get too dangerous and they need round-the-clock supervision.
Inside, I walk her through the security protocols with the same systematic approach I use for every client. Motion sensors at all entry points, backup communications system, camera feeds covering every angle of approach.
“How long will we need to stay here?” she asks, running her fingers along the wall-mounted control panel. I notice she touches things when she’s thinking—light, exploratory gestures like she’s reading the space through her fingertips.
I notice a lot about her, more than I probably should.
“Until we locate Roberts or neutralize the threat.”
She nods, processing, and I give her the tour. Bedroom for her, surveillance room with a fold-out couch for me, shared bathroom, open living area that flows into a compact kitchen. It’s all sterile and functional, exactly what it was built for.
When Gemma opens the refrigerator, she stares at the contents for a long moment: three protein shakes, bottled water, and a lone jar of mustard. She closes the door with a decisive click.
“Well, this is tragic,” she says, already pulling out her phone. Her fingers fly over the screen. “I can’t survive on protein shakes alone for however long this takes.”
She’s building a grocery list before I can object, peppering me with rapid-fire questions.
Whether I cook? Not if I can avoid it.
Meal preferences? Anything edible.
Opinions about bread? I don’t have any.
“Secret addiction to fancy cheese?” she asks, thumb poised over her phone.
“Nothing secret about it.”
She looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise, then grins and adds something to her list. “Good to know.”
I don’t usually make jokes with clients. Hell, I don’t usually make jokes at all. But something about her easy confidence makes me want to match it.
The cognitive dissonance hits me hard. Ten minutes ago I was explaining escape routes and secure perimeters. Now she’s debating the merits of sourdough versus whole grain like we’re planning a dinner party instead of hiding from a stalker.
“I’ll order delivery,” she says, scrolling through options. “Should be here within an hour.”
“Fine. I’ll be in the surveillance room.”
A few hours later, I’m monitoring the perimeter cameras when movement on the internal feeds keeps pulling my attention back to the kitchen.
Gemma has changed into soft black leggings and an oversized cream sweater that looks cashmere-soft and expensive. Her hair is still perfectly styled, but she’s barefoot now, padding around the kitchen with unconscious grace as she unpacks groceries.
She’s humming while she works, something low and bluesy that fits the smoky quality of her voice. When she reaches up to put something in the high cabinet, the sweater rides up, revealing a tantalizing strip of pale skin above her waistband. There’s a constellation of small freckles scattered across her lower back, and I catch myself wondering if they extend elsewhere.
Professional distance, Ford.
