Page 20 of Riggs
I stare at him for a beat longer than necessary. Even if the world was on fire, I think Riggs would still tell me it’s all fine so I wouldn’t panic. I don’t know if I like that, or not. All I know is whatever’s going on outside, I trust Riggs to keep me safe.
We do final shots in the white silk. I catch my reflection—pale glow, dark hair, a smile that looks like it belongs to someone who knows where her feet are. When we wrap, Elodie kisses my cheeks again and presses a garment bag into my hands. “For later,” she says, in a low voice. “No cameras.”
My face heats. “You’re dangerous.”
“So is he,” she says, glancing at the doorway where Riggs is already coordinating exit routes with the hotel guard. “But only in the right direction.”
Brice corrals the crew as Lina counts pins. Riggs sends our SUV down the alley and lines everyone up by twos like a field trip. He waits until the last possible second to open the door, then tucks me into his body.
Outside smells like rain and espresso. There’s two men at the café. It almost happens in slow motion. One lifts his phone, ready to snap a picture. Riggs turns me with a subtle press, his palm skating across my hip, and the shot the world gets is the back of his broad shoulder, not the line of my throat.
In the SUV, Lina collapses with a happy sigh. “We did it. We did it!”
“We did it,” Brice echoes, typing furiously into three group chats. “That gold reel is going to end communism.”
Riggs ignores him, scanning the mirrors. The SUV eases into traffic, and the boutique shrinks in the rearview like the past. He loosens his hand where it’s still at my waist and doesn’t move it far. My body leans into him.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low enough to be mine.
“Better than okay,” I say, surprising myself with the truth. “I forgot to be scared inside there. Because you were there.”
He exhales, something easing around his eyes. “Good.”
I twist the garment bag around my finger. “Elodie gave me a dress,” I confess. “For…not content.”
His mouth does that almost-smile. “I noticed.” His gaze dips to my hand on the hanger, then cuts to the window like it’s a thing to be defeated. “You were—” He stops, and recalibrates. “You did your job.”
“So did you,” I say. “It was… insanely attractive.”
“Professional feedback duly noted,” he says, and it’s impossible not to laugh.
My phone buzzes. I glance down. A hundred fire emojis, a dozen “WHO IS HE” messages, a trending banner that makes my stomach tilt and settle again. I turn the screen face down.
“What’s the damage?” he asks.
“Everyone wants to know who my boyfriend is.” I bump his shoulder. “Should I tell them he’s my bodyguard?”
“No,” he says, deadpan.
“Should I tell them he’s a wall who kisses like a promise?” It slips out, too honest. His hand flexes at my waist. He doesn’t look at me, and he doesn’t let go.
“Tell them,” he says after a beat, “that you’re busy.”
“Busy,” I echo, smiling into the window. “With my safety?”
“With living,” he says, and the word lands like a vow.
“Social media doesn’t understand that,” I joke, but not really because it’s true. As an influencer I feel like I have to always be creating fresh new content. Live a life? Never. Not while creating content.
“We’ll make them understand.” And the way he says it makes me believe that anything is possible.
We roll through the wet city. Riggs hands still on me like I’m precious cargo.
Back at the hotel, Riggs rides the elevator with a palm warm at my lower back. My heartbeat kicks up a notch, and I’d do anything for him to push me against the elevator doors and have his wicked way with me.
But that’s not going to happen. He’s too good at his job.
At our floor, he does the sweep, the wedge, the routine that has threaded itself into the spine of my day. Inside the room, I hang the garment bag on the wardrobe handle and catch my own anticipation in the mirror. His eyes meet mine in the reflection. For a second, the rain quiets to nearly nothing.
