Page 62 of The Bodyguard

Mitch finally spoke. “You’d be putting yourself at risk.”

Maya met his gaze, steady. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

Andi cut in. “It’s not your job to take bullets for me.”

“No,” Maya said. “It’s his to find out who’s pulling the trigger, and yours to make this city a better place to live by becoming Chicago’s third woman mayor.”

That landed hard.

Andi sat down on the edge of the couch. The truth was, Maya was right. Whoever was leaking information wasn’t guessing. They were inside. Embedded. And now, more than ever, Andi needed control back.

She looked at Mitch.

His answer came after a long pause. “We do it my way. My route. My eyes. If Maya’s being used as bait, we don’t leave a single inch of that plan unsecured, and we make sure she’s protected.”

“Done,” Maya said, already tapping notes into her tablet. “I’ll draft a schedule that looks just real enough to sell. But we need it to be believable.”

“I’ll make sure it is,” Andi said. “Let’s see who takes the bait.”

Mitch didn’t argue. But he didn’t look happy about it either.

As Maya packed up to leave, she paused at the door and looked back at Andi. “One more thing.”

Andi tilted her head.

“Whatever’s going on with you and Langdon—just don’t wait too long to figure it out.”

Andi blinked. “Why?”

“Because when this ends—if it ends—you don’t want to find out too late that the thing you needed most was already standing right in front of you.”

And with that, Maya walked out.

Andi turned, and Mitch was right there again. Watching. Waiting.

“I’m not going to pretend this is easy,” she said.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But I’m not walking away from any of it.”

“I know.”

Andi stepped in closer. Her voice dropped. “Just…don’t disappear on me again.”

Mitch’s eyes darkened. “I’ll be right behind you. Always.”

Andi nodded once. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to.

The loft was too quiet after Maya left and made the place feel smaller. More contained. The kind of quiet that forced you to listen to yourself.

Andi sat on the edge of the couch, legs curled beneath her, still wearing the oversized slouchy sweater she’d put on when she first got up. The couch smelled like him—subtle, clean, masculine. It shouldn't have made her feel comforted and exposed at the same time, but it did.

She tugged the sleeves over her hands and watched Mitch pour coffee into the mugs, his movements crisp, economic. Nothing wasted. Nothing extra. He had said little since the planning session this morning. He hadn't pushed, but he hadn't softened, either. That careful command set of his shoulders had gone nowhere.

He passed her the coffee in silence.

“You’re angry,” she said finally.

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