Page 11 of Escorting the Bodyguard
The timer for the pasta chooses that moment to go off, breaking the spell.
“Saved by the bell,” she murmurs, but there’s amusement in her voice rather than embarrassment.
She moves away to drain the pasta, and I retreat to the other side of the island. But I can still feel the warmth of her skin under my hands, still smell that floral scent that seems to follow her everywhere.
We eat at the small table, and the conversation flows easier than I expected. She tells me about growing up, how she learned to cook from her mother, who thought it was an essential skill for a proper young woman to master.
I find myself sharing stories about private security work that I usually keep to myself. Nothing confidential, just the absurdmoments that happen when you’re protecting people with more money than sense.
When she laughs at my story about a client who wanted me to taste-test all his food because he was convinced his business partner was trying to poison him, she really laughs—and snorts slightly before immediately clapping a hand over her mouth, mortified. “Oh god, I’m sorry, that was?—”
“Don’t.” My voice comes out soft. “I like it.”
Something shifts in her expression, like she’s not sure what to do with that level of honesty. But she lowers her hand, and when she smiles this time, it’s different. Less careful.
“What about you?” she asks, twirling pasta around her fork. “How does someone end up in private security? Military?”
“Army. Rangers,” I say. “Did my time, got out, started the company.”
She waits, clearly expecting more. When I don’t elaborate, she tilts her head, and I notice the way her earrings catch the light when she moves.
“That’s it? No dramatic origin story?”
“Not much to tell.”
But there is, and the familiar tightness is building in my chest. Mason’s voice on the radio. The smell of burning fuel. The echo of choices that can’t be undone.
“Everyone has a story.” Something in her voice suggests she knows about carrying weight you don’t want to share.
I take a sip of water, buying time. “What about you? How does someone end up working for Elite Companions?”
She lets me change the subject, but there’s understanding in her eyes that tells me she’s filed away my deflection for later consideration.
“Practical decision,” she says, meeting my gaze directly. “I needed money fast, I had the right assets, and I’m good atreading people. Victoria runs a clean operation, the clients are vetted, and the pay is excellent.”
“No judgment about the work?”
“From other people? All the time. From myself?” She shrugs. “I provide a service. Companionship, conversation, sometimes intimacy. All consensual, all professional. The only people who should have opinions about my job are me and my clients.”
Her directness is refreshing. No shame, no defensiveness, just matter-of-fact acceptance of her choices.
When we’re finished eating, she reaches for my plate automatically. “I should clean up?—”
“Leave it.” The words come out more firmly than I intended.
She pauses, studying my face. “It’s not a big deal?—”
“I know.” Our eyes meet and hold. “But you don’t have to.”
Something shifts in her expression—genuine surprise. Like maybe she’s not used to people telling her she doesn’t need to be useful.
“Old habits,” she says eventually, but she settles back in her chair as I start washing dishes at the sink.
After dinner, I head to the surveillance room to set up the fold-out couch for the night. The moment I try to unfold it, though, the mechanism snaps with a sharp crack, one side collapsing hard. The frame is bent, cushions askew.
Completely unusable.
“Shit,” I mutter, examining the broken hardware. The support bracket has snapped, and there’s no fixing it without replacement parts.
