Page 7 of Made in Malice

“Yes, I’m your escort.”

“My escort.” I roll my lips in to make sure I don’t repeat anything else.

“It’s in the file,” he reiterates.

I shuffle over to the bag and find it filled with a few smaller boxes and one monogrammed envelope style folder that matches the designer label. The gold latch opens with a push of a button and a click. My mind cannot process how much this single item is probably worth, let alone what else is in the bags. The interior of the envelope contains several papers to sort through. While I’m glancing at the sheets, the man says, “You may call me Alden.”

I finally see a paper with his name and read through it briefly. “You’re my escort,” I say, looking at him in disbelief. I don’t even know what that means.

“Yes.” He’s still standing in the same spot. I’m not sure he even moved a muscle—and he has a lot of them—other than to speak.

“I don’t need an escort. I didn’t agree to one either,” I argue, knowing it’s not this guy’s fault, but I’m already overwhelmed, and I’m not happy about this little addition.

“You signed the contract,” he tells me, looking in my direction.

“What contract—Oh you… I thought I was signing for the packages.”

“You should always read anything you sign,” he warns belatedly.

“Let me guess, I’ll owe you five thousand bucks when this is over?”

“No, you are not financially beholden to me at all.”

“So you’re here to make sure I get on the plane and go to South Carolina?” I tap the papers on my thigh as my aggravation builds.

“Among other things,” he concedes.

“What other things?”

“I am your escort, your protector.” He says the words slowly, as if he thinks I’m dumb, or he’s finally catching on that I had no clue about any of this.

“My protector from what? Someone robbing me of all this crap?” I kick at one of the boxes.

His brows rise, but he doesn’t show any other sign of indulging me with an answer. “Where is your boyfriend?” He looks down the single short hallway.

It takes me a moment to figure out why he would be asking. I told Virgil I had a boyfriend.

“Not here. Virgil didn’t say anything about an escort,” I deflect, changing the subject.

“Is he going to be a problem?”

“No.” I cross my arms over my chest, curious what kind of a problem a boyfriend could be in this situation.

“Shall I wait outside, Miss Devlin?”

“Don’t bother, Junior’s momma would probably call the cops on you or try to get her kids to rob you.” I look him up and down. I doubt they would even have the nerve. Alden looks like he eats little children for breakfast with his protein shakes.

“Shall I help you pack?” He looks around, and I catch a strange expression on his face I can’t quite read. Maybe it’s disbelief.

“No, you can have a seat if you want to. I have to open these boxes. I’m guessing it’s luggage, but I’m hoping it’s not this same stuff.” I push the bag on the counter as I walk by to get a knife from the drawer to cut the tape.

“It’s not to your liking?” Alden questions.

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much this stuff costs? It’s a waste of money.”

“All this is supposed to come on a plane with me, but half of it is empty. Aren’t there limits to what you can bring?” I’m standing at the curb with Alden, grateful for his presence now as we wait for the oversized SUV Uber he ordered.

“Yes, I know, I watched you pack it. And not for you.”

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