Page 7 of Stay Close
“One last rule,” I say, checking my watch. It’s early for bed, but she’s sinking deeper and deeper into the sofa. I open a bottle of water and hand it to her. She takes a long swallow and grimaces. I make a note to find her some ice. “We’re a team. Wehave to make things as hard for your opposition as possible. This means following the rules, reporting suspicious activity, staying off social media,” I say, bucking my chin at her phone. She tucks it away, a guilty pull to her lips.
“Don’t feel bad. The negotiations were thrown together so fast that we didn’t have time to brief you ahead of time.” My brows lower. “I don’t understand why anyone has a Pixy account. It’s a goldmine for foreign governments and hostile actors.”
“Hostile actors? It’s an account named for my dog, Oliver Wendell Bones.”
I try to look professional, but she’s getting cuter by the second. “Here,” I prompt, waving for it. She hands the phone over, and I navigate to her social media account. “What you do when we get back to the States is your own business, but when we’re in Sondmark”—I scroll quickly through her feed to ascertain the kinds of information someone with ill-intent might pick up—“the account is private.”
The pictures are ordinary. Edie in a baseball cap, on a hike with a copper-colored dog. Edie’s hand holding a leash as the dog leads her up the sidewalk. A dog park with a bright yellow playground in the background. “Where is this?” I ask, pointing at the screen.
“It’s in Arlington, not far from my townhouse.”
Arlington. Home of Black Swan. Edie and I are practically neighbors. I must have biked past that park a hundred times on my way intowork.
I nod and tap a few buttons. “It’s done. You might message your roommate, family, a romantic partner—” I tense and hate myself.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she says, like that was something I was asking.
I register a brief flash of satisfaction that Aunt Pat has failed to close the deal.
Knock it off.Women are women and clients are clients. I’ll keep my distance. Edie stifles another yawn and ruffles her damp hair, scattering my good intentions.
“If you check in regularly, they won’t worry,” I say, looking away from her as much as I can, which turns out to be very little. I program my number into her phone and hand it back. “You can text me any questions you have after you get some sleep.”
She smiles and her eyes droop closed. “Sleep.”
CHAPTER 3
Edie
I sleep like thedead, waking slightly before dawn, a promising sign that my body will accept the change of time zone. Reaching for my phone, I check messages. A secretary for Knickerbocker, Gouss & Astor confirms my arrival. Sara asks me for a picture of that bodyguard. “If he was gross, I would know by now.”
One from Lucas. “Send me tomorrow’s events, ASAP.” I tap the contacts list and edit his name from “Personal Protection Officer” to “Hot Bodyguard.”
What did I do to deserve Lucas bossing me around for the next two months? Was I a philanthropist in a past life? A heroic nun? Did I solve smallpox?
I slap my cheeks lightly and spring out of bed. No, no, no. There are more important things to do in Sondmark than develop a crush on my bodyguard. Even though this assignment is tiny, there will be no taking my eye off the ball when I’marbitrating a dispute between two parties with surface-to-air missile capabilities for a landmass you can’t quite see from space. I’m finally in the big leagues.
I pad to the bathroom and dig through the toiletries bag Caroline gave me last night. Just as I get the toothpaste really foamy, I hear a knock on my door. Lucas. The way my mind jumps to attention is embarrassing. Honestly, Edie. It’s probably Housekeeping with a pair of elastic-waist pants and a sports bra I’m determined to be thankful for. I don’t even want to think about how many hours I spent ThumTac-ing posts titled “It’s Giving Professionalism” or “10 Big Girl Wardrobe Must-Haves.” I can’t meet the Sondish and Vorburgian delegations wearing clothes that look like they spent half their life in a dorm room hamper and resolve to run out to the shops today.
“Oomin,” I mumble around the toothbrush.
Swinging the door wide, I almost choke on it. “Oom. Eh oo.”
“Yeah, it’s me.” Lucas enters, lifting my rolling bag—easily identified thanks to the photo of Bones slipped into the tag—over the threshold. I squeal, hugging the hard bodied case and spinning. “Ate ear.”
Lucas answers, a half-smile curving up on one side. “I’ll wait. Take your time.”
I drop the case and race away to finish a thorough toothbrushing. The vision which greets me in the mirror is fine. It’s fine that I opened my door to Hot Bodyguard looking like something that washed in with the tide.
Some women manage to make even their morning hygiene routine look magical, but I have a side bun that looks like a unicorn goiter. I look down. Even the vomiting penguin is more penguin-y and more vomit-y than last night. I scowl at the bathroom door. He looks better than the famous bodyguards of cinema, and nothing about this is fair.
I rinse the brush and tap it on the counter, reciting a stern lecture. International lawyers don’t cry about novelty t-shirts. International lawyers don’t blush like thirteen-year-old girls at the mall food court.
“The queen’s secretary left a note,” he says when I emerge.
There’s an old lawyer trick one of the senior partners taught me when I feel myself at a disadvantage. He told me to imagine myself looking cool and collected. Easy. I conjure an image of myself in a crisp poplin shirt and effortless tweed pants. So far, so good. He then told me to imagine my counterpart in his swimming trunks. I look at Lucas and the image of his abs flashes before my eyes.
I trip over my feet, recover on the back of the sofa, and give him a fixed smile. “It’s a little chilly,” I say, glancing around the room. This isn’t a hotel. Instead of four walls and a perfect rectangle of space, this odd room has alcoves and angles. But it’s not cold. Not even a little.
