Page 5 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
“With my own two hands,” she declares proudly, holding up her palms as evidence. I notice with surprise that they’re already showing signs of calluses—real ones, not the manicured hands I’d expected. “Maria always said I had potential.”
Against my better judgment, I find myself following her out of the service entrance. We grab a couple of sodas and bags of chips from the vending machine before heading outside. The Sandpiper sits at the quieter end of Love Beach, away from the spring break chaos of the main strip. Here, the beach curves gently around a natural cove, the sand darker and coarser than the manicured stretches near the luxury hotels.
We settle on a weathered picnic table behind the hotel, partially hidden by towering sea oats that rustle in the salt breeze. The view here is different from what tourists expect—no neon signs or crowded boardwalk, just the raw beauty of the coastline stretching north toward the wildlife preserve.
As Teddy unwraps the sandwich with surprising care, the aroma hits me—garlic, citrus, and the unmistakable richness of properly marinated pork. She’s even toasted the Cuban bread to the perfect crispness.
“The trick,” she says, cutting it diagonally with practiced precision, “is soaking the pork in bitter orange juice overnight. Maria says that’s what makes it special.” As she offers me half, I notice a small smear of mojo sauce on her wrist, a decidedly un-socialite-like detail that somehow makes her seem more real.
I try to maintain my professional distance, but something about this moment—the ocean breeze, the authentic food, the hidden corner of the beach that tourists never see—makes it difficult to remember why I’m supposed to be keeping my guard up.
“Everyone thinks Love Beach is just parties and tourists, but up here...” She gestures at the way the dunes roll naturally into the maritime forest. “This feels more honest somehow.”
I take a bite of the sandwich, and damn if it isn’t good—not perfect, maybe a touch too much garlic—but made with genuine care and attention to detail. Just like how she’s approached this job, I realize with surprising clarity.
“Well?” she asks, watching my face with an eagerness that seems at odds with the woman I thought I knew.
“It’s...” I search for words that won’t give too much away, that won’t reveal how unexpectedly impressed I am—both by the sandwich and by her. “It’s actually decent. The pork is tender.”
As her smile widens, something shifts in my chest—a dangerous loosening of the professional distance I’ve tried to maintain. Because maybe, just maybe, I’ve been wrong about Theodora Hollister all along.
“Decent?” She laughs, the sound carrying on the breeze. “From you, that’s practically a five-star review.”
A comfortable silence settles between us as we eat, broken only by the distant cry of seabirds and the rhythmic pulse of waves against the shore. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the sand, turning the ocean into a sheet of hammered gold.
From here, we can see past the tourist facades to Love Beach’s true character—the weathered fishing pier where locals gather at dawn, the cluster of family-owned restaurants that have survived decades of hurricanes and changing times.
“You know,” Teddy says suddenly, brushing crumbs from her uniform, “I used to think this end of the beach was boring whenever I’d stay here during the summers. Too quiet, too far from everything.” She gestures toward the distant lights of the main strip, where music already pulses from beachfront bars. “Funny how perspective changes things.”
I study her profile, noting how different she looks from the glossy photos I’ve seen in local magazines. There’s something compelling about this version of Teddy, something genuine that makes it harder to maintain my professional detachment.
“Why are you really doing this?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
She turns to face me, and for a moment, I glimpse vulnerability beneath her sunny exterior. “Would you believe me if I said I’m tired of being the family disappointment?”
“You’re not—” I start, but she waves me off.
“Please. I know what people think of me. Poor little rich girl, trading on her family name.” Her fingers trace patterns in the condensation on her water bottle. “But that’s not who I want to be anymore. I want to understand this business from the ground up, to earn my place in it.”
“But why housekeeping?” I press, genuinely curious now.
“My mother,” she continues, “she always took the easy way out. Relied on family money, family connections. Look where that got her.” She turns to me, her eyes holding mine with unexpected intensity. “I won’t make the same mistakes.”
I find myself wanting to believe her, despite years of professional cynicism. “Three weeks isn’t a long time to learn an entire business.”
“No, but it’s a start,” she agrees, a determined set to her jaw. “I also want to make my aunt Elaine proud. Preston and Brogan, too. I always wished they were my brothers. I loved coming here in the summers even if they probably thought of me as just their annoying cousin.”
“I doubt they think that,” I say, surprised by my own desire to reassure her.
Teddy’s eyes widen at my words, a flicker of hope crossing her face before she schools her expression. “Maybe,” she says, her gaze drifting back to the ocean. “But I still have a lot to prove.”
The wind picks up, sending loose strands of her hair dancing around her face. Without thinking, I reach out to brush one away from her cheek. The moment my fingers graze her skin, that same electric awareness from earlier crackles between us. Teddy’s breath catches, and I pull back, reminding myself of professional boundaries that I’ve just carelessly crossed.
“Must be static electricity,” she murmurs. “Again.”
I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure and wondering what the hell has gotten into me. “We should head back. Your break’s almost over.”
“You’re so right. I definitely can’t be late on my first day.” Gathering the remnants of our lunch, Teddy stands just as a sudden gust of wind catches her off balance. I reach out instinctively, steadying her with a hand on her elbow. The contact, brief as it is, sends another jolt through me—one that has nothing to do with static and everything to do with the unexpected warmth of her skin beneath my palm.
