Page 19 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
“All done,” I say, drawing away reluctantly. “Should provide relief for about eight hours, according to the box.”
As Teddy turns to face me, the sight of her—flushed cheeks, slightly parted lips, eyes darker than before—hits me like a punch in the gut. It’s as if something fundamental has definitely shifted between us, a boundary crossed that can’t be reestablished.
I should leave. Right now. Before this gets any more complicated.
“I should get going,” I say, standing abruptly.
“Wait,” Teddy says, reaching out to catch my wrist. “At least let me thank you properly. Ice cream?” She gestures toward the kitchen. “I certainly can’t eat three pints by myself.”
I should refuse. “I don’t think?—”
“Please,” she interrupts, and there’s something in her eyes that looks almost like vulnerability. “I’m... I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this whole experience. Preston and Brogan expect me to fail, and everyone at the hotel thinks I’m someone else, and...”
She trails off, releasing my wrist. “Sorry. That’s not your problem. You’ve already gone above and beyond your assignment.”
Something in her words strikes a chord in me and against all better judgment, I sit back down.
“Which flavor do you recommend?” I ask.
The smile that lights up her face is worth every professional boundary I’m crossing. “Rocky Road. Definitely Rocky Road.”
She fetches two spoons and the ice cream, settling back onto the couch beside me, closer than before. As she hands me a spoon, our fingers brush, and I tell myself to focus on the ice cream in front of me.
“So,” she says, digging her spoon into her tub of salted caramel ice cream, “what’s your professional assessment? Am I the worst Hollister assignment you’ve ever had?”
“Not even close,” I answer as she takes a bite of ice cream, a small sound of pleasure escaping her lips. “Preston once made me accompany him to a three-day meditation retreat where no one was allowed to speak. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to provide security when you can’t talk?”
She laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. “That sounds like Preston. All business until he decides to ‘find his center’ or whatever the trend of the month is.”
I take a bite of the ice cream, surprised by how good it is—rich chocolate with marshmallow swirls and chunks of almond. “This is excellent,” I admit. “Though I should reimburse you for half a pint of premium ice cream on a housekeeper’s salary.”
Teddy waves dismissively. “Consider it payment for the massage.”
“That’s hardly equivalent,” I argue, taking another spoonful. “This probably cost what, ten dollars? That massage would run you at least a hundred at a spa.”
She raises an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Fine. You can pay me the difference with a kiss.”
The spoon freezes halfway to my mouth as I process her words. She’s joking—she must be—but the look in her eyes suggests something else entirely.
“That would be inappropriate,” I say, my gaze dropping to her lips of its own accord.
“More inappropriate than giving me a back massage in my townhouse while I’m undercover as a housekeeper?” she challenges, setting aside her spoon and ice cream. “I’d say we left ‘appropriate’ behind about an hour ago, Javi.”
She has a point. Still, I hesitate, acutely aware of all the reasons this is a bad idea. She’s the cousin of my employer. My current assignment.
A Hollister.
“Teddy...” I begin, not even sure what I’m going to say as I set down my ice cream and spoon.
“Forget it,” she says quickly, her cheeks flushing. “Bad joke. I’m just tired and sore and apparently have no filter after manual labor and magical massages.”
But I don’t want to forget it. Despite every rational argument, every professional boundary, every warning bell going off in my head, I find myself leaning toward her.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice lower than intended. “Because once we cross this line...”
Her eyes meet mine, her expression serious. “I’ve spent the last year trying to be someone I’m not—a social media star, a party girl, whatever I thought would make people like me. But they weren’t really my friends. They just wanted to be seen with a Hollister, to get into exclusive clubs, to have their tabs covered.” She takes a deep breath. “The last five days working at The Sandpiper, I’ve felt more real, more myself, than I have in ages. And you’re the only person who’s seen both versions of me and still looks at me like... like I’m worth something.”
Her vulnerability is disarming, her honesty unexpected. In this moment, she’s not Teddy Hollister, socialite, or Theresa Holden, housekeeper. She’s just a woman looking at me with hope and uncertainty in her eyes.
