Page 86 of The Bodyguard Affair
“She’s a hundred percent convinced I’ve crashed this wedding,” I say with a snort as we head to the end of the table. The sun’s already warm, the scent of salt water and sunscreen filling the coastal air.
Without thinking, I slide my hand into Nolan’s, not for appearances, but because it feels right. Just like it had felt natural to rest my head on his shoulder during the flight.
Under the pavilion, we have the perfect view of the beach. It’s massive, the white sand stretching at least a mile or two on either side. It’s dotted with little straw huts, chaise lounges, and the odd palm tree swaying in the breeze. The water is glittering in the sun, boasting a wild shade of blue that reminds me of Nolan’s eyes.
Just as we go to sit down, Laine finds us. She’s in a black bikini, a fruity drink in hand. “I’m so glad you guys made it! I heard about the storm. A bunch of people got delayed.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “The resort is absolutely stunning, by the way,” I add as Laine greets Nolan with a sandy hug.
She ushers us to sit with our plates and pulls up an empty chair next to me, where she launches into a story about how Hunter’s mom had a lot of trouble communicating with the resort coordinator, and how frustrating it was that no one understood it wasn’t a “wedding” but a “celebration of love.”
“Hunter and I spent last night together,” she makes sure to tell us. “No rules, no tradition.”
We chat for at least fifteen minutes, and it feels like old times. Maybe it’s the coastal breeze, the tan, but she’s absolutely glowing. Even Hunter comes by for a quick greeting. He’sseemingly in a good mood—I can tell by the animated way he’s talking, telling us all about the excursions available. You’d have to be a monster not to feel happy for them right now.
It doesn’t take long before Hunter’s parents spot me at the end of the table and come by to greet me. It’s a bit of an awkward exchange.
“Andi, it’s so nice to see you again. You look absolutely lovely,” Hunter’s mom says warmly, mid-bite of a piece of pineapple before adding, “How have you been?” I don’t miss the sympathetic look in her eyes.
“I’ve been good. Busy with work.” Is that really all that’s new to report?
“I’m sure. I hear you’re quite the talk of the town,” she says with a raised brow.
I fight to swallow my bite of toast. “Yup. Luckily everyone knows none of the rumors are true.”
A woman in a yellow beach dress I don’t recognize angles herself toward us with interest. “So it really wasn’t you that wrote the book?”
I shake my head instinctively. “No.”
She frowns. “Shame. It was one of the best books I’ve read in a long time.”
“Don’t listen to Gloria,” Hunter’s mom says, leaning in like she’s telling a secret. “She’s a pervert who only reads Fabio smut.”
Gloria shamelessly throws her head back in a throaty laugh. “If it doesn’t have a shirtless man on the cover and at least three questionable uses of the word ‘throbbing,’ it’s not worth my time.”
I can’t help but snort, trying to hide my amusement.
Hunter’s mom looks both amused and horrified. “You know, Gloria, there are books out there with actual plots. Substance.”
She waves a dismissive hand, taking a liberal sip of her mimosa. “Please. Romance has more substance than your left toe. Give me all the heaving bosoms and throbbing members.” She says “throbbing” so loud, like she doesn’t give a single flying fuck. I officially love Gloria. I’d die for Gloria. She’s my favorite kind of romance reader—proud and unashamed of what she loves to read, despite people making fun of her to her face. I respect that immensely and I tell her so.
“I used to hide the covers of my books behind other books,” she says with a snort. “When I was young, I even glued the cover of my dad’s legal drama on a Harlequin to bring to school. But now, at my big age? I can’t be bothered.”
“What changed?” I ask.
“This world is too dark, too negative, as it is. You have to find joy where you can. Joy, by the way, isn’t frivolous. It’s foundational.”
“Joy is foundational,” I echo.
Gloria watches me for a beat before she leans in and whispers, “The shame fades quick when you stop giving it a seat at the table.”
Her words light something inside of me. Before I can respond, Hunter’s mom shakes her head. “Well, I better move along. I’m proud of you for having the gumption to come and support them. It’s very nice of you.”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a grin.
After a long chat with Gloria about recent romances she’s read and how she gets all her recommendations from a book-stagrammer called TaraRomanceQueen (who apparently raved aboutThePrime Minister & Me), Nolan and I head to the beach to play bocce ball, the waves lapping against the shore. It’s morefun than I expected. I’m absolutely terrible at it, launching it like a fastball. When Nolan realizes the first terrible throw wasn’t an anomaly, he stands behind me to adjust my stance, my shoulders, and my hips, and helps me guide the ball. His breath skirts over the back of my neck as he places his hand on my wrist to guide the ball to the left. It still manages to veer off course. I start laughing so hard, I nearly topple back into him.
By the end of the game, I’m tipsy after too many fruity beachside drinks, too loud for someone who planned to fly under the radar all weekend. And somehow my flip-flop met an untimely death during bocce ball. The sand and asphalt are so hot, you could make a perfect fried egg on them.
