Page 7 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
I sink into a plush armchair, muscles screaming in protest. “It’s... enlightening. I never realized how much work goes into maintaining a hotel. Or how many ways there are to fold a towel.”
Crystal perches on the edge of her desk, studying me. “But how are you really doing? This can’t be easy for you.”
“My body feels like it’s been hit by a truck,” I admit, rubbing my lower back. “But there’s something satisfying about it too. Seeing a messy room transform into something pristine and welcoming.”
“You’re learning empathy,” Crystal says. “Seeing firsthand what it’s like to be on the other side of the Hollister empire.”
I bite my lip, guilt gnawing at me. Guilt for my past thoughtlessness, for the privilege I’ve taken for granted. “I just don’t understand why I have to have someone following me around though.”
Crystal tilts her head as she thinks. “You mean Javi?” When I nod, she adds, “He’s mainly for your protection, not to monitor your performance. You’re still a Hollister, after all.”
“I’m sure he’ll survive the indignity of babysitting the family disappointment for a few weeks.”
Crystal’s expression softens. “That’s not how Preston sees you, you know. He admires your decision to do this.”
I fidget with a loose thread on my sleeve. “I just... I need to prove I can do this.”
She studies me, her expression thoughtful. “Do you think you can’t?”
The question catches me off guard. “It’s not that I think I can’t,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s that I’m afraid of what it means if I can.”
Crystal’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“If I can do this—really do it, without shortcuts or special treatment—then what does that say about everything else in my life? All the times I’ve taken the easy way out?” I run a hand through my hair, wincing as my fingers catch on tangles. “What if I’ve been capable of so much more this whole time, and I’ve just been too scared to try?”
Crystal squeezes my shoulder gently. “Oh, Teddy. That’s not something to be afraid of. It’s something to celebrate.”
The shop bell rings, announcing the arrival of a customer. Crystal gives me an apologetic look as she moves to greet them.
“I should get going anyway,” I say, rising from the chair with effort. “Thanks for the chat.”
“Remember, you’re doing great,” she calls after me as I step out into the cooling evening air.
* * *
The drive home takes longer than usual. Love Beach traffic is picking up as tourist season shifts into full gear, and I find myself drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, impatient for a hot bath and muscle relaxers. Three days of housekeeping has introduced me to new categories of pain.
When I turn onto my street, the familiar sight of luxury townhomes with their manicured landscapes offers a jarring contrast to the service corridors and staff rooms where I’ve spent my days. Two worlds, completely separate yet now somehow both mine.
As I pull into my private drive, my headlights illuminate a familiar dark sedan parked across the street. And leaning against it, arms crossed and expression unreadable in the evening shadows, is Javi.
My heartbeat quickens as I park and step out, suddenly conscious of my wrinkled uniform, messy ponytail, and the lingering scent of industrial cleaner.
“Let me guess,” I call out, aiming for casual. “Preston’s orders?”
Javi straightens, his military posture making even the simple act of standing look dignified. “Standard protocol. Ensure the protectee arrives safely at their destination.”
“Well,” I gesture toward my front door with a theatrical flourish, “as you can see, I’ve arrived without incident. Safe and sound, if a bit worse for wear.”
His eyes scan me with that assessing gaze that seems to catalog every detail. “You’re favoring your right side. Lower back?”
I blink, surprised by his observation. “How did you?—”
“It’s the most common injury for new housekeeping staff,” he says simply. “Improper lifting technique.”
“Let me guess—bend at the knees, not at the waist?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Is that the technique you use for lifting heavy objects or just picking up women at bars?”
His expression shifts from professional concern to startled amusement, a flash of surprise that he quickly masks behind his stoic facade. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
