Page 17 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
She hesitates, and I can see her weighing the implications of inviting me in. I should probably rescind the offer, maintain the professional boundary that’s already dangerously blurred. But I find myself hoping she’ll accept.
“Alright,” she says, pushing open the door. “But this officially goes beyond your security duties, Commander.”
I meet her gaze, acknowledging the shift we’re both aware of. “Consider it basic first aid.”
As I follow her inside, I’m struck by the significance of this moment. For years, I’ve maintained a careful distance from my protectees, seeing them as assignments rather than individuals. Yet in just five days, Teddy Hollister has somehow breached those defenses, making me care about more than just her physical safety.
And despite every professional instinct warning me of the complications this could create, I find myself unable—and unwilling—to step back.
The space is stunning—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of Love Beach, minimalist modern furniture in cream and taupe, artwork that probably costs more than my yearly salary. But what strikes me most is how unlived in it feels. No personal photos, no clutter of daily life. Just perfect, magazine-worthy emptiness.
Teddy leads me to the kitchen, setting her grocery bag on a marble island. “I stopped by O’Leahey’s Creamery for ice cream on the way home,” she explains, pulling out three pints. “Self-medication.”
I smile at that, a genuine smile that feels unfamiliar on my face. “Smart thinking.”
As she unpacks the rest of her purchases—a heating pad and pain relievers—I notice how she winces with each movement, trying to hide her discomfort.
“Planning a party?” I ask, nodding toward the ice cream.
A faint blush colors her cheeks. “I couldn’t decide between flavors. Rocky Road is classic, but the Salted Caramel has actual sea salt from France, and the Chocolate Fudge Brownie has these chunks of brownie that are just...” She trails off, looking embarrassed. “I stress-eat ice cream. Judge away.”
“No judgment,” I say, finding her unexpected vulnerability strangely endearing. “Everyone has their comfort food.”
She looks at me curiously. “What’s yours?”
The question catches me off guard. It’s personal, outside the parameters of our professional relationship. But then again, so is standing in her kitchen preparing to apply muscle relief patches to her back.
“My abuela’s arroz con pollo,” I admit. “Nothing fancy, but it tastes like home.”
Something softens in her expression. “That sounds nice. Having food that feels like home.”
There’s a wistfulness in her voice that seems out of place coming from someone who could order from any restaurant in the city at a moment’s notice. Before I can dwell on it, she picks up the box of muscle patches I’ve set on the counter.
“So, about these. I can probably reach most places myself, but?—”
“Where does it hurt the most?” I ask, taking the box from her.
She hesitates before pointing to her lower back. “Here. From all the bending and lifting.”
I nod, keeping my expression professionally neutral despite the intimacy of what I’m about to do. “You’ll need to...” I gesture vaguely at her shirt.
“A shower,” she says, turning away. “Just... give me a few minutes.”
She disappears down a hallway, returning fifteen minutes later wearing a tank top that leaves her shoulders and upper back exposed while providing enough coverage to maintain propriety.
“This work?” she asks, and I notice a faint flush on her cheeks.
“Perfect,” I say, focusing on reading the instructions on the patch box rather than on the smooth expanse of skin now visible to me. “These should be applied to clean, dry skin.”
She nods. “Showered and changed. In case you haven’t noticed..”
Oh, I have, I almost say out loud but I don’t. “Good.” I open the box, removing one of the large patches. “These would probably work better with some massage first, to relax the muscles before application.”
As the words emerge before I can filter them, I regret the suggestion. Too personal. Too intimate. Too far beyond the boundaries I should be maintaining.
To my surprise, Teddy doesn’t seem shocked or offended. Instead, she looks relieved. “Would you mind? Maria—our housekeeper at home—used to help when I’d get sore from tennis. But obviously she’s not here, and I don’t really want to go to some spa or call someone who...”
“I can help,” I say, cutting off her rambling. “I had some training in massage therapy during rehab for a shoulder injury. Nothing professional, but enough to know the basics.”
