Page 10 of Spring Break with a Bodyguard
I take the service elevator to the third floor, arriving before the housekeeping team. The hallway already bears the marks of spring break revelry—empty pizza boxes stacked outside doors, the carpet damp in places from what I hope is just spilled drinks. From room 317, I can hear the muffled sounds of several people still sleeping off what was likely a substantial night of partying.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I position myself at the far end of the hallway, ostensibly checking a maintenance panel while waiting for Teddy and Miguel to arrive. They emerge from the service elevator moments later, pushing their heavily laden carts. Teddy’s face is already flushed from the exertion, a tendril of hair escaping her braid to curl against her neck.
“Rule number one—knock loudly. Rule number two—wait longer than you think you need to before entering. Rule number three—be prepared for anything,” I overhear Miguel saying as Teddy nods earnestly, pushing her glasses up her nose with a finger that shows the beginning of a callus.
I watch them tackle the first few rooms without incident—standard post-party chaos, nothing they can’t handle. Miguel works with impressive efficiency, and Teddy follows his lead, her movements becoming more confident with each room.
Then they reach room 317.
Miguel knocks firmly, waiting a full minute before using his keycard. As the door swings open, I catch a glimpse of the disaster inside—furniture overturned, bedding everywhere, empty bottles scattered across every surface. Even from down the hallway, I can smell the distinctive aroma of stale beer and vomit.
Teddy hesitates for just a moment before following Miguel inside. I move closer, positioning myself where I can monitor the situation without being obvious about it. Through the open door, I can see her surveying the damage, her expression a mixture of disbelief and determination.
A groan emerges from a pile of blankets on the floor, revealing a young man with disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes.
“Dude,” he croaks, squinting at Teddy and Miguel. “What time is it?”
“Nearly nine,” Miguel answers calmly. “We need to clean the room, sir.”
The young man blinks slowly. “Can you, like, come back? Brad and Trent are still sleeping.”
I tense, ready to intervene if necessary. These situations can escalate quickly, especially when entitled college kids feel inconvenienced.
Miguel handles it professionally, explaining hotel policy about required daily cleaning. But the kid isn’t having it, his tone becoming increasingly dismissive as he argues. I can see Teddy shifting her weight, her body language revealing her discomfort even as she maintains a neutral expression.
That’s my cue. I step into the doorway, deliberately filling the frame with my presence.
“Is there a problem here?” I ask, keeping my voice level but authoritative.
The effect is immediate. The young man’s demeanor changes, moving from entitled to apologetic in seconds. “Uh, no sir. No problem.”
“Good,” I say firmly. “Because hotel policy requires rooms to be cleaned daily. You and your friends need to clear out. Now.”
There’s a sudden flurry of activity as two more young men emerge from the bathroom, hastily gathering their belongings. They stumble past us with mumbled apologies, not quite meeting my eyes.
Once they’re gone, Teddy exhales. “Thank you,” she says, our eyes meeting briefly.
I nod, maintaining my professional demeanor. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything else.” But something shifts in that moment of eye contact—a current of understanding, perhaps, or appreciation that goes beyond our assigned roles of protected and protector.
As I turn to leave, I catch Miguel giving Teddy a knowing look. “I think your bodyguard likes you, Miss Holden,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear.
I pretend not to have heard, continuing down the hallway with measured steps. But Miguel’s observation lingers uncomfortably in my mind. Have I been that transparent? Is my focus on Teddy exceeding what would be expected for standard security coverage?
It’s not that I like her, exactly. It’s more that I’m... intrigued. The woman scrubbing bathroom tiles and changing sheets with quiet determination is nothing like the frivolous socialite I’d expected. There’s something genuine about her effort, something that doesn’t fit with the narrative I’ve constructed about who Theodora Hollister is supposed to be.
My radio crackles with a call about a situation in the north stairwell and I respond, grateful for the distraction from my increasingly complicated thoughts.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of minor security issues—spring breakers trying to access restricted areas, noise complaints, a couple attempting to sneak into the hotel pool without being guests. Routine problems with simple solutions.
Yet I keep finding myself circling back to the third floor, drawn like a compass needle to its true north. I tell myself it’s just part of my assigned duty to keep Teddy safe, but I know there’s more to it than that.
Around noon, I spot her emerging from a room, struggling with an overfilled trash bag. The exertion has brought a flush to her cheeks, and I can’t help but notice the way the uniform clings to her curves as she maneuvers the heavy load. There’s something undeniably appealing about the authenticity of her in this moment—hair coming loose from her braid, face free of makeup, strain evident in the set of her shoulders. It’s real in a way the Instagram-perfect Teddy Hollister I’d glimpsed in society pages never was.
Before I can think better of it, I’m moving to help her, taking the bag from her hands. Our fingers brush momentarily, and that strange electric awareness sparks between us again.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, but there’s no real protest in her voice.
