Page 16 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
“You’re in pain,” I say as I approach, unable to keep the concern from my voice.
“Hello to you too,” she replies with forced lightness. “What are you doing here? Isn’t your shift over?”
“I came to check on you.” I step closer, my professional distance slipping. “You were moving differently today. Favoring your right side. Breathing more shallowly.”
She raises an eyebrow, defensive humor in her expression. “Stalking is an interesting security technique.”
“Observation,” I correct, my jaw tightening. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’m doing my job,” she counters, straightening despite what must be significant pain. “The job I signed up for, remember?”
“A job you have no physical training for,” I say, following her to her door. “You’re going to injure yourself if you keep this pace.”
She turns to face me, keys clutched in her hand. “What exactly would you suggest, Commander Conrad? That I quit? Prove Preston and Brogan right that I can’t handle it?”
Her question hits a nerve. Over the past five days, I’ve watched her work with a determination that has contradicted my initial assessment of her character. The last thing I want now is for her to give up.
“I’m suggesting you take better care of yourself,” I say, my voice rising despite my efforts to maintain professional composure. “Ask for help when you need it. Take breaks. Use proper lifting techniques.”
“I’m fine,” she insists, the obvious lie only increasing my frustration.
“You’re not fine,” I counter, an unexpected surge of emotion breaking through my meticulously maintained control. “You can barely stand straight. Your hands are shaking from muscle fatigue. You skipped lunch to clean that flooded room on third.”
Surprise flickers across her face. “How did you know I skipped lunch?”
The question catches me off guard. How do I explain that I’ve been tracking her movements all day, far more closely than my assignment requires? That I noticed when she didn’t appear in the staff room during her scheduled break?
“Because it’s my job to know,” I say, then add more quietly, surprising myself, “Because I was worried about you.”
The admission hangs between us, crossing a line I’ve been careful to maintain with all my security assignments. Concern is professional—worry is personal.
“Why?” she challenges, stepping closer, close enough that I can smell the faint floral scent of her shampoo beneath the industrial cleaning products that cling to her uniform. “Why would you worry about a spoiled socialite playing at being a housekeeper?”
Her question exposes the prejudice in my initial assessment of her, and I find myself wanting to correct it, to acknowledge what I’ve observed these past days.
“Because I was wrong about you, okay?” The words come out more forcefully than intended. “I expected you to quit after the first day. To run back to your designer clothes and Instagram followers.” I gesture toward her, struggling to articulate the shift in my perception. “But you didn’t. You’ve worked harder than most trained staff, without complaint, even when it’s literally breaking your body.”
She seems taken aback by my honesty, her defensive posture softening.
“I’m tougher than I look,” she says, her voice quieter.
“I know that now,” I agree, matching her tone. “Which is why I’m offering help you’re too stubborn to ask for.”
She stares at me. “You’re… offering help?”
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” I mutter, thinking of my own stubbornness after my shoulder injury years earlier, how it had nearly cost me full recovery. “Even Navy SEALs. Even Hollisters.”
We stand there in the growing twilight, the tension between us shifting from confrontation to something more personal. I become acutely aware of how close we’re standing, of how her blue eyes reflect the last light of day, of how completely unprofessional my thoughts have become.
“Fine,” she concedes, unlocking her door. “What kind of help are we talking about?”
I hold up the pharmacy bag, grateful for the return to practical matters. “I brought muscle relief patches. And I know how to apply them properly. My shoulder injury in Syria taught me more about muscle recovery than I ever wanted to know.”
I rarely mention my deployments to civilians, but somehow it feels important to offer this small piece of myself, to explain why I understand what she’s experiencing.
“Syria?” she asks, curiosity softening her expression.
“Another time,” I say, unwilling to go further down that particular memory lane. “Right now, you need those patches before your muscles seize up.”
