Page 65 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
She tilts her head. “What?”
“The stars. You ever go up and look at ’em anymore?”
She hesitates. “I have a rooftop terrace.”
I raise a brow. “Seriously?”
“You wanna see?”
“Lead the way.”
And just like that, she tugs me into her world again—up the stairs, past the quiet rooms and heavy shadows, and onto a rooftop I swear was built for something holy. The rooftop terrace looks like it was pulled from a design magazine and thenlived in.
It’s all stone and soft light, with a glass half-wall that opens the whole space to the hills and the sky. There’s a firepit, a few low planters with night-blooming jasmine, and a cluster of chairs near the railing. In the back corner, away from everything, are a few oversized lounge chairs and a couch—wide enough for four, with a thick cushion and a dark gray throw tossed over the back.
Bailey steps out into the wind, arms folded across her chest, hair lifting just slightly. “I don’t come up here enough.”
“You should,” I say.
The sky is clear tonight—cold and endless, with a faint scattering of stars pushing through LA haze. You can’t see the full Milky Way, but you can see Orion. Always Orion.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. “It’s stupid, but sometimes I forget how pretty this place is.”
“Not stupid,” I say. “You’ve been fighting to feel safe in it.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Do you?”
“What?”
“Feel safe?”
I walk over to the railing, look out at the lights. “No,” I admit. “Not really. But I feelbetterup here.”
“Because of the view?”
I look at her. “Because of you.”
She blushes. Looks away. “God, you’re worse than Wesley.”
“He’s a talker. I’m not.”
She laughs—small, surprised. “You’ve always been good at that.”
“What?”
“Getting to the point.”
I walk toward her slowly, closing the distance.
“You used to sneak up behind me on the roof back home,” she says. “Back when it was just tar and cracked brick and that busted lawn chair.”
“You always left the fire escape open for me.”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
I step beside her, shoulders almost touching. “You’d bring a blanket. I’d bring Red Vines and that terrible vanilla soda you liked.”
She smirks. “You still remember that?”
