Page 12 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
And then there’s Javi.
He’s been a constant presence on our floor, his security rounds seemingly timed to coincide with our cleaning schedule. Each day, he finds some reason to check in, to lend a hand with a particularly heavy item, to warn us about rowdy guests.
I’d noticed Javi even before this assignment—how could I not?
As Preston’s bodyguard, he’d been a striking figure in the background of family gatherings and business meetings. All broad shoulders and quiet intensity, a perfect contrast to my cousin’s more animated presence. But our interactions had been limited to brief nods and occasional professional exchanges when I’d visit Preston’s office.
This is different.
Now, I’m seeing him daily, watching the way his uniform stretches across his chest when he reaches to help with something on a high shelf, noticing how his eyes crinkle at the corners on those rare occasions when I coax a smile from him. The professional distance between Preston’s bodyguard and frivolous socialite cousin has collapsed into something far more complicated.
Miguel has taken to making himself scarce whenever Javi appears, shooting me knowing glances that I pretend not to see. I’m grateful that Miguel seems to think Javi has a personal interest in “Theresa Holden” rather than suspecting he’s really my security detail—though the heat that rushes to my cheeks whenever Javi enters the room isn’t exactly an act.
After we finish sanitizing the blue bathroom, Miguel and I move on to the next room, where a “Do Not Disturb” sign hangs on the door despite checkout time having passed two hours ago.
“Knock or call the front desk?” I ask, looking to Miguel’s experience.
“Protocol says knock first, then call if no response,” he answers, rapping firmly on the door. “Housekeeping!”
No answer.
Miguel knocks again, louder this time. Still nothing.
“I’ll call down,” he says, reaching for his work phone.
As he speaks with the front desk, I notice something seeping from beneath the door—a thin trickle of water snaking across the hallway carpet.
“Miguel,” I interrupt, pointing to the growing puddle.
His eyes widen. “Water leak. We need to get in there now.” He ends his call and swipes his master keycard, pushing the door open.
We’re immediately hit with the sound of rushing water and the sight of a bathroom doorway spilling a small river into the main room. The carpet squishes beneath our feet as we hurry toward the source.
“Call maintenance,” Miguel directs me, already wading into the flooded bathroom.
I grab the room phone and dial the emergency maintenance extension, reporting the situation as Miguel struggles with the shower faucet.
“It’s stuck!” he calls over the rush of water. “The handle’s broken off!”
Within minutes, the room fills with people—maintenance workers rushing in with tools and wet vacs, the floor manager appearing with clipboard in hand, and, inevitably, Javi materializing in the doorway, his expression sharpening when he spots me standing ankle-deep in water.
My heart does that ridiculous little flip it’s been doing whenever he appears. It’s embarrassing how my body responds to him—the quickening pulse, the flutter in my stomach, the sudden hyperawareness of every inch of myself. I’ve felt attracted to men before, but never like this—never with this constant, low-level hum of awareness that intensifies whenever he’s near.
“What happened?” he asks, moving to my side with surprising speed. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne—something clean and subtle that makes me want to lean in closer.
“Broken shower handle,” I explain, gesturing to where Miguel and the maintenance chief are finally managing to shut off the water at the source. “No one answered when we knocked.”
Javi’s eyes scan the room, taking in the soaked carpet, the waterlogged furniture. The focus in his gaze, the immediate assessment and problem-solving, makes me wonder what it would be like to have that intensity directed at me in a very different context. The thought sends an entirely inappropriate heat through me despite standing in cold water.
“Where are the occupants?” he asks, his voice all business while my mind is decidedly not.
As if on cue, a group of sunburned young men appear behind him, their expressions transforming from confusion to dismay as they take in the scene.
“Dude, what the hell?” exclaims a tall blond wearing board shorts and a tank top with a crude slogan. “That’s our stuff!”
The floor manager steps forward, his professional smile strained. “Sir, are you the registered guest for this room?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Tyler Rodman.” The blond pushes past Javi, his voice rising as he surveys the damage. “What did you people do to our room?”
