Page 56 of The Bodyguard

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re looking for him again.”

She didn’t have to ask who he meant. Rick. He’d been gone for half an hour, but she couldn’t stop scanning for him. Couldn’t stop waiting for the next move.

“You said he wouldn’t pull anything here,” she whispered.

“He won’t,” Mitch said. “Not tonight. But he wants you fearful. Distracted. That’s the game.”

“It’s working.”

He didn’t say she was wrong. He didn’t try to feed her comfort or tell her she was stronger than this. He just watched her. Measured her. And then he did something unexpected. He stepped in, close—so close her spine almost brushed the mirror behind her. He lifted his hand, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear, as if they weren’t surrounded by thirty people and a camera crew ten feet away.

Her breath caught.

“Mitch—”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough for her heartbeat to stutter and spike. He leaned in. She tilted her chin instinctively, lips parting—and then he stopped.

His lips hovered half a breath from hers. Close enough that her skin tingled. Close enough that her body screamed for the contact. But he didn’t move. Didn’t kiss her. Didn’t let her close the distance, either.

“Not here,” he said. Quiet. Steady. Final.

Their moment was interrupted by the distant chime signaling the commencement of the evening's speeches. Andi straightened, the mask of the poised politician slipping back into place.

"Time to face the music," she said, forcing a smile.

Mitch nodded, but his eyes betrayed his reluctance to let the moment go. "I'll be right there with you. Just remember, I’m the leader of the band."

She stared up at him; the adrenaline twisting inside her. It wasn’t rejection—it was restraint, and it shook her more than if he’d kissed her.

Because if he could hold back now—when every part of her was leaning into him, aching for that next step—then he was holding back everywhere. Not because he didn’t feel it, but because he did. Because it mattered.

“Councilwoman!”

The call came from the center of the room. A photographer waving her over for a shot with the museum board.

Mitch stepped back, the mask slipping back into place with surgical precision.

Andi followed the sound of her name and the crowd that came with it. Her smile locked in again like armor.

But something had changed. She wasn’t just wondering anymore. She didn’t doubt the heat between them. He was holding back. And that meant she wasn’t imagining a damn thing.

The night wore on. Too many hands. Too many speeches. Too many people pretending to give a damn about city zoning while quietly asking who she was sleeping with.

She played the game. Delivered the lines. Kept her voice steady and her posture regal.

At one point, she needed to take a breath and was able to step outside for air. Mitch didn’t follow. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

The garden terrace was quiet. Tucked behind the museum’s west wing, lit by antique lanterns and shielded by tall hedges. Andi wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and breathed in the scent of summer blooms.

She heard nothing at first—not until the crack split the air like a whip. Gunshot.

Glass shattered behind her—a high, crystalline wail as one of the third-floor windows blew out. Screams followed. Running footsteps. Security radios crackling to life.

Andi ducked instinctively, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Mitch—” she started, already moving.

Then he was there—materializing from the shadows like he’d never left her side. He grabbed her, one hand on her waist, the other braced around her shoulders, guiding her behind the stone wall with lethal efficiency.

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