Page 109 of The Bodyguard Affair
For the first time in my life, I have this overwhelming urge to stay put. To let her fill my life with her sweet laughter, her smile. I can’t wait to get the keys to the yellow house so I can officially ask her to move in with me. Andi has already made a Pinterest board full of design ideas. There are so many little renovation projects I want to start on.
Mostly, I want to walk Cody along the same, familiar route every day in the trails behind the house. I want to go grocery shopping every Saturday and come home to her every single day, smiling at me from over her laptop, her hair pulled into a wild bun.
I always thought I’d be happy anywhere else, somewhere just out of reach. But there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here with Andi, my home.
And there’s not a chance in hell I’d ever trade this life for anything.
Epilogue
Andi
Three Years Later
“Excuse me.” A woman swivels around in the Starbucks line and does a double take. Instinctively, I shift back, assuming I’m in her way. “Sorry to bother you, but are you A. A. Zed?”
It takes me aback. It’s the first time I’ve been recognized randomly in public, ever, despite my name and photo being national news.
There’s a split second when I instinctively gear up to deny it, before I remember that I no longer need to hide. There’s no more embarrassment, shame, or severe urge to sink into oblivion. Instead, I relax my posture, smile, and say, “Yeah. I am,” with confidence.
The woman lets out a high-pitched squeal, turning the heads of nearby patrons. “Oh my god. I am obsessed with your books. I actually took the afternoon off work to get here on time.”
A joyful warmth swells in my stomach, expanding into my chest. I will never get used to hearing that. “Wow, thank you so much. Where did you travel from?”
“Montreal,” she tells me. “I’m a little early, but I wanted a good seat. I saw the event was sold out.” She’s not wrong. The lineup of people waiting for the event to start is currently snaked around the building, spilling into the parking lot. Just to see me.
Today is my launch event for my sixth book,Into the Blue, an angsty summer romance that early readers have called my “best work yet.” And even though it’s my sixth, I’m still in awe when I see my books on shelves. And even more in awe when the bookstore manager gets me set up at a table in front of a stack of preordered books nearly as tall as me to sign.
It takes me a while to work through the lineup. It’s important to me to give each reader time, especially when they’ve spent hours reading my books. I can’t help but think about the hundreds of hours I spent typing away, unsure anyone was ever going to read my words, let alone like them or connect with them.
It means a lot to me when they giddily recount their favorite scenes, their eyes shimmering with the same magic I felt when I wrote them. It’s the exact fuel I need to keep creating stories that bring joy to people’s hearts. The ones that give them a cozy, safe place to escape to when real life gets tough.
Midway through signing, I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of Nolan, my lifeline. He flashes me that sunlit smile as he works his way through the line, handing out custom bookmarks and stickers, and generally charming all the readers. He’s become so well-known at my events that I’m starting to think some peopleare coming here for him. Everywhere he goes, people quite literally salivate over him. Not that I blame them.
He recently took a new job as a CPO for the governor general. While he loved working for Eric, his new schedule is more relaxed. It gives him more time to visit Lorna in the memory care facility. Unfortunately, her memory is getting worse and worse, which only confirms that it’s the best place for her. She smiles every time we bring her daisies and play her favorite ’80s music, even if she doesn’t always remember who we are.
Whenever we’re not visiting Lorna, Nolan becomes a walking billboard for my books.
His support for me has never waned ever since the first night we met, when he convinced me that my words were meant to be read by people other than me. If anything, it’s grown exponentially. Everywhere we go, he tells everyone and their grandmother to read my books. He’s even lurked around the romance section of the bookstore, pouncing on unsuspecting patrons to pitch my books. He’s also threatened to have T-shirts made with my book covers on them and script that saysRead My Girlfriend’s Books. (I saw them in his online cart.) He’s basically a walking romance hero, but better, because he’s turned everything I thought I knew about real love sideways.
I used to think love was fleeting, a rush of lust, a chemical reaction that was bound to fizzle after the honeymoon stage. I’d seen it happen one too many times. But three years, two homes, and one bouncy, floppy, ugly puppy later, I see how wrong I was.
Sure, those feverish days where all we wanted to do was rip each other’s clothes off have softened. We may not do our best every single day. There are days I get irrationally pissed when heleaves his socks in the living room. And he’ll get equally offended when I spend too much time scrolling on my phone engrossed in publishing scandals instead of having an actual conversation with sustained eye contact. We may disappoint each other, even hurt each other during times of stress. But that’s okay, because that’s real life, beyond the crisp pages of a book. Messy, weathered, mundane, sometimes a little topsy-turvy, but beautiful, raw, and real. And with every new layer, every new experience, we’ll love each other more and more. We’ll also become more resilient. We’ll turn toward each other, instead of apart. Stronger as a pair to face whatever life throws at us.
By the end of the evening, when my wrist is sore and my voice is gone from all the talking and shaking hands, Nolan brings me a fresh tea and an oatmeal raisin cookie while I finish up signing and personalizing a stack of preordered copies.
“You need this.”
“I’m fine, really,” I assure him.
“You’re pregnant. You need it.”
I smile gratefully, taking the cookie. He takes better care of me than I do myself. I have a tendency to lose myself in my writing, greasy and unshowered, typing feverishly for hours without drinking a lick of water. He’s always there with a fresh glass of water and a nutritious meal, slipping it onto the corner of my desk as quietly as possible so he doesn’t break my concentration.
His doting tripled (if that’s even possible) when we found out I was pregnant two months ago, and I’m currently in the throes of nausea. Not the best timing for my book launch, but I’m managing and trying to come to terms with the fact that I can’t do it all, all at once.
“Any good name inspiration?” he asks, leaning over to catcha glimpse of the books I’m signing. His arm brushes against mine, making my heart patter.
“There’s a lot of Ashleys.” For someone who’s always had a list of potential names, I’ve found that coming up with the right one is challenging, especially when he’s decided I have to choose because he’s scared I’ll say yes to anything he suggests. It doesn’t help that Nolan has opinions on every name that isn’t Pippa or Jack. I secretly love both, but I haven’t told him, because it’s fun to rile him up.
