Page 13 of The Bodyguard

She froze mid-motion. He took the bottle, opened it with one smooth twist, and set it back in front of her.

Andi blinked. “Thanks,” she murmured. Barely audible.

He returned to the wall. No comment. No acknowledgment. Just control, restored.

The luncheon came next—a downtown event hosted in a glossy, high-rise club by a boardroom full of business elites in tailored suits and expensive watches.

Mitch stepped into the room first, eyes scanning every guest, every server, every angle of approach. There were no windows—good. Only two doors—better. He located the fastest route to extraction and noted the waitstaff uniforms: gray vest, white shirt, black pants. One bartender. Four servers.

When Andi entered, the room shifted. She’d changed into a dark green sheath dress that brought out the color of her eyes, heels that clicked confidently across the floor, and a smile that could sell legislation to a room full of cynics. The crowd leaned in. The press snapped photos.

Mitch stayed at the perimeter, arms crossed, watching it all.

When Andi took the mic and spoke about tax breaks for small businesses and sustainable development incentives, she didn’t just hold the room—she owned it. But every few minutes, her eyes drifted to where he stood—steady and silent—and then back to the crowd. Like she needed the confirmation.

She wasn’t alone.

Back in the SUV, she didn’t speak until they were several blocks away.

“You stared at me through that entire luncheon.”

“I stared at everyone.”

“It felt personal.” He didn’t answer. She shifted in her seat. “You know, if you wanted to watch me like that in private, you could just ask.”

He looked at her then. Slowly. Deliberately.

“If I ever watch you in private, it won’t be because I asked.”

Her breath hitched, and for the first time since he’d walked into her life, she had nothing to say.

3

ANDI

Being followed should have made her feel safer… it didn’t.

Not even when the man doing the following was six-foot-two of tactical precision and glacial calm, with arms like tree trunks and a voice built to command obedience. Not even when he knew how to sweep a room, silence a threat, and dismantle an argument without ever raising his voice. Especially not when he walked three steps behind her like her own personal storm cloud—controlled, silent, and always watching.

Andrea Donato had built her career on being in control. She didn’t surrender. She negotiated. She commanded. She handled it.

Except now? Now she had Mitch Langdon, and there was no negotiating with Mitch Langdon.

From the moment he entered a room, the air changed. People noticed. Men looked twice. Women looked longer. Even the jaded political donors at tonight’s event paused when Mitch walked through the door behind her, dressed in matte black like he owned the shadows.

Andi stood near the check-in table at The Alder Club, one of Chicago’s most exclusive private venues, watching the way guests filtered past the velvet rope and into the candlelit atrium beyond. High ceilings. Marble floors. Bartenders in matching vests poured cocktails under golden light. Everywhere she looked, there were handshakes, practiced smiles, champagne flutes raised in curated camaraderie.

Behind her, she felt Mitch before she heard him. The low thud of his boots on tile. The way the conversation shifted just slightly in his presence. Like the entire room understood that something dangerous had entered—and it wasn’t here to network.

“You’re scanning the exits,” he murmured.

“I always scan the exits,” Andi replied, adjusting the sleeve of her cream silk blazer. “It’s basic situational awareness.”

“You didn’t do it when we got to the campaign office this morning.”

She shot him a glance over her shoulder. “Maybe I just like doing it when you’re watching.”

His eyes held hers. Steady. Unmoved. “You’re not here to play games tonight.”

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