Page 66 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

THE STREETS ARE PACKED WITH Saturday shoppers simultaneously in a rush and taking their time. It's the eternal Manhattan paradox of being too important to slow down but too indecisive to actually move. The sky's spitting a gentle mist that's not quite rain, just enough to make everyone hunch their shoulders and glare upward occasionally.

I'm twenty yards behind Londyn, watching her carefully weave through the crowd.

"—and then Mateo says, 'Dad, I think I want to be an astronaut-doctor-ninja.'" Mike's enthusiastic voice crackles through my earpiece. "Kid's got ambition, right? Mona says he gets it from her side, but I don't know. Her brother's been working on the same screenplay for a decade."

"Mm-hmm," I respond, eyes tracking Londyn as she pauses outside a candle shop. She studies the window display before stepping inside.

I move to a café across the street, ordering an herbal tea I don't want just to blend in. I settle down at a table outside and take a sip. Not bad but I've been thinking I should visit an Asian market and see if they have barley tea. Haven't had that in years.

Through the window of the candle shop across the street, I can see Londyn examining different candles, holding them close to inhale their scents. There's something strangely intimate about watching her do this. It's a simple, normal thing that reveals preferences I'd like to discover.

Of course, I'm too far away to see what she's picking up, but which scent does she like? Which one make her wrinkle her nose?

Mike continues, undeterred by my minimal responses. "Noah might need glasses. Kid's been squinting at everything. Got an appointment next week."

My attention drifts back to Londyn and the poetry book we share between us. Last night, I read through it again, cover to cover, stopping at passages I remember connecting with years ago. Words that once spoke to loneliness now described longing. Lines about isolation suddenly felt like invitations.

I kept wondering: what does she see in the same words?

She exits the candle shop with a small bag dangling from one wrist. I leave the café table to follow along. Her steps are lighter now, her shoulders slightly less tense. I watch as she moves down the street and then stops to examine a bookstore window display.

I smile. She's a secret book lover waiting to get out. Just needs a little nudge that I'm happy to provide.

"You doing your job?" Mike's tone cuts into my earpiece.

My eye twitches because the question irritates me. Of course I'm doing my job. I've been gathering intel on every person who's passed within ten feet of Londyn. I've assessed their body language and their intentions. My mind does this on auto-pilot.

The fact that I'm also thinking about the way Londyn touched my hair, or the warmth of her palm against my chest, or what poems might touch her soul, doesn't mean I'm not focused.

I've also completed thorough checks on everyone in Londyn's life—Raven, Stacy, her coworkers. Nothing suspicious.

And I sent out queries for Alan Miller. So far, nothing concerning came back from my contacts. His background check was clean. But that doesn't sit right with me. It wastooclean. He has a famous dad, so he grew up with money, but no DUIs? No failing grades for any college class? No questionable social media posts? Everyone hassomething, even something minor like one single speeding ticket.

I wonder if someone's been covering up his messes. Because I know in my gut that a guy like that has 'messes.'

So, to answer Mike's question: yes, I've been doing my fucking job.

"Yes," I snap at him. "Get back to yours."

Mike falls silent, but the tension buzzes through my earpiece. I know why he's concerned. Emotions cloud judgment. They create blind spots. A distracted bodyguard is a useless one.

I won't lie; I am a bit distracted.

I'm feeling something for Londyn. It started the moment I saw her at that convention. It was concern at first and a need to protect. Stepping into her apartment for the first time, it grew as I surveyed her space, found those little things we had in common—humor, books, the way she sees the world. It surprised me when I got jealous during her date. Overwhelmed me when I realized how much I craved her to see me as I am, like her view and opinion of me matters.

Then book club made it impossible to turn back; I discovered our shared understanding of what it's like for a tragic past to insert itself into your brain. Even her loneliness feels so similar to mine.

When I'm with her, something inside me relaxes. She sees me. Not as a weapon or a shield or a tool. Just a person. Now, I only want to see more ofherand everything that makes her tick.

The other night, I watched her Sundance film. I couldn't help myself after learning who she used to be. I needed to see it and understand that part of her.

Holy hell, she was phenomenal.

The way she inhabited that character, a woman unraveling after her twin's suicide, was like watching someone peel back their own skin. In one scene, she's reading her sister's journal and something breaks open in her expression that made my chest physically ache.

No fucking wonder she was headed for an Oscar.

Even hidden away in Manhattan, living this phantom life, I can see that brilliance in her. That light hasn't been extinguished. Just dimmed.

---