Page 4 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
Even as Preston explained the severity of her financial situation, she’d maintained that breezy persona, cracking jokes and treating everything like a minor inconvenience. I’d filed her away as just another privileged socialite, coasting on family connections without appreciation for the opportunities she’d been given. The fact that she’s now attempting to learn housekeeping feels like just another performance for attention.
I tug at the collar of my hotel security uniform, the fabric rough against my neck compared to the custom shirts I’m used to. At least I’d convinced them to let me carry my standard sidearm instead of the flashlight and radio most hotel security carried. Small consolation for being demoted to glorified babysitting.
As I move to begin my second security sweep of the floor, I overhear Mark Roberts speaking in hushed tones around the corner.
“—need to be more careful about who has access,” Roberts says, his voice low but tense. “The complaints are increasing.”
“My staff are trustworthy,” counters Carmen, the head of housekeeping. “If items are missing?—”
They spot me and fall silent, Roberts forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Conrad. Settling in?” His gaze flicks to the security badge on my chest. “Remember, standard patrols only. No need to disrupt our... operational flow.”
I nod tersely, filing away the exchange for later consideration. Something about Roberts has felt off since I arrived.
Turning down the next corridor, I spot Teddy again. The cart has apparently won their battle, wedged awkwardly against a doorframe as she attempts to maneuver it through. Her face is flushed with frustration and exertion, a far cry from the polished Instagram photos I’ve seen of her toasting with champagne at charity galas.
The woman struggling with that cart looks nothing like the Teddy Hollister I thought I knew—the one whose breezy “Don’t worry, be happy!” philosophy had grated on my nerves during every security briefing. This woman looks... determined.
Before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward her. “Let me help you with that,” I say, reaching for the cart.
The moment our hands brush as we both grab the handle, a jolt of electricity courses through me. Teddy’s eyes widen and for a moment, we’re frozen, our fingers millimeters apart on the cool metal.
“Static electricity,” I grumble as she nods, a faint flush coloring her cheeks.
“Right. Static,” she whispers. “But thanks.”
We stand there for a heartbeat longer, the air between us thick with a tension I can’t quite place as I catch a whiff of her perfume—something light and floral—mingling with the industrial odor from the laundry cart.
Clearing my throat, I break the spell. “Let me take this.” I gently nudge her hands away as Teddy hesitates, her brow furrowing.
For a moment, I think she might refuse my help—after all, it isn’t part of my job description—but then she steps back with a small nod.
“Thanks.”
I push the cart into the laundry room where employees sort linens, the hum of industrial machines filling the air. Teddy follows close behind, the harsh fluorescent lights casting shadows under her eyes, accentuating the dark circles from what must be several nights of insufficient sleep.
What’s most surprising is how different she looks. The social media darling with perfect makeup and designer clothes is gone. This Teddy—or Theresa—wears no makeup, has her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, and carries herself differently, with slightly hunched shoulders as if trying to make herself smaller. The cheap glasses she wears as part of her disguise transform her face.
Her transformation is so effective that not a single employee has connected her to the Hollister family. Instead, they see only Theresa Holden, the inexperienced new hire who got stuck with the worst shifts during spring break. That’s why they’ve been loading her up with the most difficult tasks—not because they know who she is, but because she’s the newest and lowest in the housekeeping hierarchy.
And yet she’s never complained, not once. Just works through whatever they throw at her with quiet determination. Admirable, really, even if I’m not convinced it will last.
“What’s next on the list?” I ask, trying to maintain a professional tone despite the way my skin still tingles from our brief contact earlier.
Teddy pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket, squinting at the scrawled handwriting. “Lunch.”
“Lunch,” I echo, suddenly aware of the gnawing emptiness in my own stomach. “I’ll escort you.”
Teddy hesitates, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “I brought my lunch and thought I’d sit outside for a while. Care to join me? I’ll share my sandwich with you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say gruffly, annoyed at myself for how tempted I am by the offer. My job is to keep an eye on her, not become her lunch buddy.
“But I want to,” she says, pulling a paper bag from her locker. “Besides, I made this sandwich myself and I need an honest opinion. Maria—our housekeeper—she taught me her secret recipe for pan con lechón.”
I pause, my interest reluctantly piqued. Pan con lechón isn’t just any sandwich—it’s a slice of home, of Sunday afternoons at my abuela’s house, the air heavy with the scent of slow-roasted pork and fresh bread.
“You made it yourself?” I can’t keep the skepticism from my voice. The idea of Teddy Hollister in a kitchen, actually cooking, seems as likely as me taking up competitive ballroom dancing.
