Page 31 of The Bodyguard

“You faked nothing. You led.”

“Sure,” she muttered. “Led a room full of donors who care more about where I’m polling than whether I make it to the next debate alive.”

“They’d care if they knew. They don’t. We’ve kept the actual threats and the one attempt off the front page.”

She let out a quiet laugh. The first real one in hours. “You’re not funny, Langdon.”

“Didn’t say I was.”

A silence settled between them. Comfortable, if a little taut. She heard him pour water into the kettle, the soft click of the burner. Of course, he knew where she kept it. Of course, he knew her tea preferences. He’d probably logged it on some encrypted Cerberus profile with a list of her stress tells and how often she blinked when lying.

She turned and leaned her hip against the island. “Were you watching me the whole time today?”

His eyes met hers across the loft. “Yep.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Only when you try to give me the slip.”

She had the good grace to wince. “I wasn’t trying to slip you. I was trying to breathe.”

He didn’t blink. “Next time, breathe in my line of sight.”

There was no anger behind the words. Just command. Solid and simple, like a wall she couldn’t move—and maybe didn’t want to.

“You ever tire of being right?” she asked.

“Nope.”

Andi’s lips twitched, but the expression didn’t last. Her gaze dropped to the floor, then drifted toward the windows. The night pressed in behind the glass, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the dark, someone knew where she lived. What she looked like asleep. Someone had stood close enough to take pictures and walk away without making a sound.

She rubbed the heel of her hand against her chest, trying to dislodge the dread that had taken root there. It wouldn’t move.

“I can’t do this forever,” she said softly.

“No one’s asking you to.”

“I mean this.” She gestured vaguely—to the loft, to him, to the silence between them full of things she didn’t know how to say. “The hiding. The second-guessing. The fact that every time I speak, I wonder if it’s the last thing I’ll ever say.”

Mitch didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His stillness said everything. She hated that it calmed her.

She moved away from the counter and walked barefoot across the living room, tugging her jacket off as she went. Her tank top was sticking to her back from nerves, or stress, or just the weight of being her.

“You’re unraveling,” she said aloud before she could stop herself.

Mitch tilted his head. “You or me?”

“Me.”

She reached the doorway to the bathroom and stopped, hand on the frame.

“I need another shower.”

His voice followed her. “Leave the door unlocked.”

It wasn’t a question; she didn’t argue.

Andi stepped inside, twisted the faucet, and let the water run while she peeled off the rest of her clothes. The mirror fogged. Her reflection vanished. She liked it better that way.

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