Page 24 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
“It would be off the record,” I hurry to add. “Nothing that would compromise your position with Preston or the security firm. Just... help me figure out who’s really behind this before Roberts builds a case against Theresa Holden.”
As I explain my thoughts, I can’t help noticing the way his eyes never leave mine, intense and focused. There’s something incredibly attractive about the way he listens—truly listens—to what I’m saying.
Javi is silent for a long moment, as if he’s weighing options, considering angles. I can almost see the tactical assessment happening behind his eyes. When he’s deep in thought like this, a small line appears between his brows that I have a sudden, irrational urge to smooth away with my fingertip.
“It’s risky,” he finally says. “If we’re caught investigating on our own, Roberts could use it against both of us.”
“I know,” I acknowledge. “But if we do nothing, I’m the perfect scapegoat. New hire, limited background, working during all the theft timeframes. Can you imagine the PR nightmare my cousins would have to deal with... again?”
He studies me intently, those dark eyes seeing more than I’m comfortable revealing. “This matters to you. Finishing the three weeks, proving yourself.”
“More than I expected it to,” I admit. “I thought this would just be about showing Preston and Brogan I can handle responsibility. But it’s become something more—learning how the hotel runs, understanding what the staff deals with, being part of something real instead of just the superficial world I’ve been living in.”
Javi reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine briefly. The simple contact sends warmth spreading up my arm. “Okay. I’ll help you investigate. But we do this smart, we do this careful, and at the first sign of serious trouble, we bring in Preston.”
Relief washes over me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns. “This could get complicated fast. Speaking of complicated...” His eyes meet mine, and the shift in topic is clear. “About us.”
My heart skips. “Is there an us?”
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Last night happened. I don’t regret it. But mixing personal feelings with professional responsibilities rarely ends well.”
“So we keep things strictly professional until my three weeks are up?”
Javi runs a hand through his short dark hair, his gaze dropping momentarily to my lips before meeting my eyes again. The way his focus lingers makes heat bloom beneath my skin.
“It would be recommended, yes, but…”
“But?” I prompt as he reaches across the table, his fingers finding mine. The simple touch sends electricity through me, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm—deliberate, intimate—a stark contrast to the public setting of the café.
“This,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving mine. “This is why we can’t pretend nothing’s happening.”
“So what do we do?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as Javi’s fingers intertwine with mine more fully.
He shifts closer, our knees touching under the table as his free hand reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind my ear, fingertips lingering against my cheek. “We focus on solving the theft problem first.”
“And after?” I manage in a whisper.
“When your three weeks are up, we figure it out.” He withdraws his hand reluctantly, a muscle working in his jaw. “Then I go back to executive protection for Preston.”
The sudden absence of his touch feels colder than it should. “Back to your real job.”
A shadow crosses his face as he sits back in his chair, creating a distance that feels both necessary and unbearable.
The message is clear without him saying it—Whatever is developing between us comes with an expiration date.
“We need to focus on one problem at a time then,” I say, trying to keep disappointment from my voice. “Starting with finding the real thief.”
He nods, but his gaze lingers on my face a beat too long.
“I have some ideas about that. The hotel’s security system has blind spots I’ve noticed during my rounds. If someone knows the camera layouts, they could move between floors without being seen.”
As he speaks, his professional demeanor returns, but the undercurrent between us remains. I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the way his hands gesture precisely as he explains his security insights, remembering how those hands felt against my skin last night.
“How do we use that to catch them?”
“We need bait,” he says. “Something valuable enough to tempt our thief, but traceable. And we need to set it up in a way that narrows down our suspect list.”
