Page 2 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
“Starting with housekeeping.”
He leans back, the leather creaking softly beneath him. “The Sandpiper,” he says finally. “It’s one of our smaller properties, tucked away on the north end of the beach. Less traffic, less chance of you being recognized.”
Brogan inhales sharply. “Preston, you can’t seriously be considering this.”
“She’ll find a way anyway,” Preston says, running his fingers through his dark hair before turning to face his brother. “And you’ll be in charge of keeping her safe. You’re the one with the security firm.”
Brogan’s jaw clenches, his gaze darting between Preston and me. The tension in the room pulses with each passing second.
“Fine,” he says, his voice tight as I nod, trying to hide the excitement flaring in my chest.
This is it. My chance to prove myself.
“Three weeks,” Preston adds. “After that, you return to shadowing Charles until you’re ready for more responsibility. And Teddy, this stays between us.”
I nod solemnly.
“You start tomorrow,” he continues. “6 AM sharp. HR will prepare the paperwork under your assumed name. What will it be?”
I hesitate for a moment. “Theresa,” I reply. “Theresa Holden.” Close enough to my real name that I won’t forget to respond, but different enough to avoid suspicion.
Preston nods, his fingers already tapping at his keyboard. “Theresa Holden it is.”
“Next week is spring break,” Brogan says, groaning. “Love Beach will be wild.”
“Wild is an understatement,” Preston mutters. “The Sandpiper may be one of our smaller properties, but it’ll still be packed. Are you sure you’re ready for this, Teddy?”
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach. The thought of facing hordes of rowdy spring breakers while learning housekeeping is daunting.
“I’m ready,” I say, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel. “Whatever comes, I’ll handle it.”
* * *
The next morning, after an hour spent in orientation, I feel the first pangs of regret as I wrestle with an overloaded cart through the empty hallway of the Sandpiper.
The wheels squeak in protest as I maneuver around a tight corner, the pungent smell of cleaning chemicals burning my nostrils.
My arms already ache from the unfamiliar labor, and I’ve just started my first shift.
“Come on, Marilyn,” I mutter to my cart, named after the Hollywood star, because even mundane objects deserve glamour. “Work with me here because I’m not giving up just yet.”
This was my idea, after all, and I’m sure Preston and Brogan have already taken bets on how long I’ll last. A week? Two? What if they think I’ll barely make it through today?
At the first room on my list, my hand trembles as I knock. “Housekeeping,” I call out, just like in the training videos I’d watched late into the night.
No answer. I slide the keycard into the lock and swing the door open.
The room looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Towels litter the floor, empty beer cans and pizza boxes cover every surface, and the bed is a disaster zone—sheets tangled and half-hanging off the mattress, pillows strewn across the floor. The acrid smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hits me like a wall, making my eyes water.
For a moment, I just stand there, frozen.
Back home, our housekeeper Maria would have tutted disapprovingly at such a state, her expert hands making quick work of even the worst chaos. But Maria isn’t here, and I’m on my own.
I push my non-prescription glasses (part of my Theresa disguise) up the bridge of my nose.
I can do this. I have to do this.
That’s when I sense it—the weight of someone watching me. Looking behind me, I meet the dark, assessing gaze of Javier Conrad. Or simply Javi, as Preston calls him.
