Page 7 of Escorting the Bodyguard
My room is identical to hers. Same layout, same view, same sterile luxury. I drop my bag by the dresser and immediately check the adjoining door. Unlocked on both sides, as it should be.
But not soundproof.
I settle onto the bed, shoes still on, lying on top of the covers. Old habit—stay ready, stay distant, stay in control. My body knows how to do this, has done it hundreds of times in dozens of different locations.
My mind, not so much.
Through the thin walls, I hear her moving around. Water running in the bathroom. The soft sound of her voice as she makes a phone call. She laughs, low and relaxed and completely at odds with the polished composure she showed me.
It’s not a sound meant for me. But I listen anyway.
She talks for maybe twenty minutes, her voice a soft murmur I can’t quite make out. Then silence. More movement. The sound of the bed creaking as she settles in.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, more off-balance than I want to admit. My pulse only slows when the sounds from her room go quiet, but even then, my mind won’t settle.
I came here to do a job,I remind myself.Simple protection detail. Keep her safe until the threat is neutralized. That’s it.
So why does everything about her feel like the real danger?
I should be thinking about perimeter coverage. Access points. Not the shape of her voice when she laughed, or how steady she looked with fear simmering under the surface.
The truth is, she doesn’t feel like just another client. I already care. I shouldn’t.
I check my watch: 11:47 p.m. Then 12:23. Then 1:15.
At 2:30, I give up on sleep and move to the chair by the window, positioning myself where I can see both the street below and the adjoining door.
The city never really sleeps, but this late, the traffic is sparse. A few cabs, some late-night wanderers, nothing that sets off my internal alarm system.
Just after 4 a.m., I finally drift off.
The sharp knock on my door two hours later pulls me instantly alert, adrenaline flooding my system before I’m fully conscious. I’m on my feet and at the door in seconds, hand instinctively moving toward my weapon.
Through the peephole, I see Gemma.
She’s standing in the hallway holding a folded piece of paper. Despite the early hour, she looks ready for a photoshoot—silk robe perfectly arranged, hair styled, makeup flawless. At 6 a.m., most people look rumpled and half-awake. Not her.
I don’t say a word about it, but it sticks with me as I unlock the door.
“Someone slipped this under my door,” she says, extending the note. “Not quite the breakfast in bed I was hoping for.” Her voice is controlled, but there’s the faintest tremor underneath.
I take the paper, hyperaware of her proximity. There’s something spicy and subtle in her scent that makes me want to lean closer.
But then I unfold it and read:
You’re mine, Gemma.
You just don’t realize it yet. But you will. Soon.
Cold professional focus slams back into place as my eyes scan the paper.
The handwriting is neat, precise. Confident.
My jaw clenches as I process the implications. This guy got close enough to slip this under her door undetected, while I was right in the next room.
My pulse spikes. Not just from the risk, but from the realization:I should’ve stopped this. I didn’t.
And the worst part? That familiar voice in my head saying:You were supposed to be better this time.
