Page 3 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
Smooth and low and full of faux charm, the kind of laugh that once made me feel wanted and now makes my stomach twist.
I freeze. Turn my head just enough to confirm what I already know.
David Oswalt. Looking relaxed. Looking right at home. He’s standing near the patio bar with a glass of scotch and a smile I used to kiss in the dark. His suit’s navy, tailored to his broad frame. His olive skin glows under the soft lights, and his hazel-green eyes are focused—locked—onme.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, fingernails biting into my palms. I can’t breathe. My heart stutters against my ribs.
He doesn’t approach. Not yet. He just sips, and watches, and waits. He knows what he’s doing. That’s the worst part—the watching. The waiting. He knows what he does to me.
I could leave.
I could text Mira right now and have her pull the car around, slink out the garden gate and call it self-care. I could be home within the hour, curled up between Maeve and Eli, both of them warm and dreaming, and pretend I never saw him.
But that’s what he wants. For me to run. For me to always be the one who flees, who crumbles, who shakes so hard she can’t hold a champagne flute without spilling it.
Fuck that.
I pull in a long, slow breath through my nose, just like my therapist taught me. Feet flat. Chin high. Spinal cord like a string being tugged up to the sky.
I don’t turn away when David starts moving. I watch.
Step-by-step, like the whole damn party is parting for him. He walks like nothing’s wrong. Like we’re just two exes who made a clean break and now nod politely when we cross paths. No scandal. No drama. No blood.
His smile is perfectly shaped. His hands are relaxed. But his eyes arefurious.
“Bailey.” His voice is rich with faux affection. “You look…radiant.”
“I usually do.” I keep my tone even. “What are you doing here?”
His brows arch, faux surprise. “Charity, of course. Children’s literacy is a noble cause.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No?” He tilts his head, studying me like he’s deciding where to make the first incision. “You think I came just for you?”
I don’t answer.
We both know the truth. David has a famous name—he’s a producer, from a long line of producers. His face doesn’t sell tickets. But he’s got a gift for making himself useful. For inserting himself in places he doesn’t belong and acting like he owns the room.
His gaze dips, scanning my gown in a slow, deliberate drag that makes my skin crawl. “Emerald’s always suited you. Makes your eyes pop.”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
“Wasn’t flirting.” He steps closer. I hold still. “I was admiring. You look like a goddess tonight.”
“That answers all the questions I didn’t ask.”
Something cold slides through his expression. His smile doesn’t change, but his eyes go blank. And that’s more terrifying than rage. He steps close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne—amber, expensive, too familiar. “Let’s dance.”
“No.”
“Come on, Bai. One dance. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Why?” I force a laugh. “So you can say you charmed your way back into my good graces?”
He leans in, voice dropping. “So I can leave you alone.”
That gives me pause. “What?”
