Page 12 of Escorting the Bodyguard
I’m running through alternative sleeping arrangements when Gemma appears in the doorway. She’s changed into silk pajamas—shorts and a matching camisole in deep blue that makes her skin look luminous. Her makeup is still perfectly applied, not a smudge in sight.
“What happened to the couch?” she asks, taking in my expression and the twisted furniture.
“It’s not usable. I’ll take the love seat in the living room.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That thing is barely long enough for me, and you’re a giant.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “There’s a queen bed in the guest room, and you’re welcome to share with me.”
The wordsharemakes my pulse kick up, but I push the reaction down.
“The love seat is fine.”
“Ford.” She gives me a look that suggests she thinks I’m being deliberately obtuse. “We’re both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
She’s right, of course. It’s the practical solution. But the idea of lying next to her all night, listening to her breathe, feeling the warmth radiating from her side of the bed…
That feels like its own kind of danger.
“Professional boundaries,” I say weakly.
“Are maintained by professional people,” she counters. “Which I think we both are.”
She has a point. And the alternative is spending the night on a love seat that’s at least a foot too short, which won’t exactly improve my alertness tomorrow.
“Fine,” I say. “But I sleep on top of the covers.”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.”
We settle on opposite sides of the queen bed, backs carefully turned to each other.
I’m lying on top of the comforter in my clothes, while she’s under the covers in those distracting pajamas. There’s probably two feet between us, but it feels like inches.
Tension coils in the dark, stretched tight between us. I’m highly attuned to every small sound she makes—the rustle of silk against sheets, the soft sigh as she settles into her pillow, the almost inaudible hum she makes when she’s getting comfortable.
“Thanks,” she says quietly into the darkness. “For all of this. I know it’s not exactly standard bodyguard duty, playing house with a client.”
“It’s not playing house.”
“No?” Her voice goes soft, almost curious.
I don’t answer, because I don’t have words for whatever this is becoming. Professional distance is supposed to be my specialty, but every interaction with her seems to erode another layer of the walls I’ve built.
I lie there listening to her breathing even out, feeling the warmth radiating from her side of the bed, and I realize the real danger isn’t Tim Roberts.
It’s how much I’m starting to care about the woman lying next to me. And when you care, the stakes get higher. When you care, every decision matters more. When you care, failure isn’t just professional—it’s personal.
And I can’t afford to fail her the way I failed them.
4
Gemma
Foundation goes on first,blended until my skin looks airbrushed. Concealer next—under the eyes, around the nose, anywhere imperfection might dare to show. I’ve been doing this routine for so long I could do it in my sleep.
I glance toward the bed where Ford is still sleeping, then back to the mirror. I need to finish before he wakes up.
I smooth the silk camisole over my curves and adjust the matching shorts. It took years to love the soft fullness of my hips and breasts, to see beauty instead of flaws.
Thanks for nothing, Mom.
