Page 14 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
I sink into my chair and stare up at the ceiling. The stars are out there somewhere, beyond the concrete and noise and electric hum of the city. Somewhere, Orion’s still watching. We named this company after a promise.
I might break it.
4
HUCK
I’ve spentmost of my life squeezing into spaces that weren’t built for someone like me.
Cramped Humvees. Narrow bunk beds. Tiny apartments with ceilings just low enough to make me hunch. The lives of women who needed me in pieces, not whole. Protect this. Don’t touch that. Keep your hands to yourself, your voice low, your needs nonexistent.
But this? Bailey’s mansion?
This is the first time I’ve walked into someone’s home and thought—yeah. I can breathe here.
Bailey’s place is a fortress. Stone walls. Iron gates. Double-thick windows. The kind of estate you only see on real estate shows hosted by people with suspicious accents and questionable taste. But it’s not gaudy. Not pretentious. It’s warm. Clean. Full of life in that chaotic way that only happens when kids are actuallylivinginside.
There are toys in the hallway, framed crayon drawings by the entry table, a half-unzipped backpack slumped like a drunk atthe base of the stairs. It’s the kind of place a woman like Bailey builds when she’s working twice as hard as everyone else just to make sure her babies sleep easy.
It’s perfect.
Sean’s already mapping out camera angles and pinch points. Wes is grumbling about router speed and grid coverage. Me?
I’m soaking it in. All this room. All thisspace.
The ceilings are tall enough that I don’t have to duck when I stretch. The couches are big enough that I don’t look like a fucking gorilla sitting down. The stair railing doesn’t creak when I lean on it.
God, it feelsgood.
I drop my duffel in the guest suite I’ve been assigned and glance around. Wood floors. Oversized bed. French doors that open out to the back patio. Probably bigger than every place I’ve ever lived stacked together.
My actual apartment is a decent-sized loft with almost no walls and a wraparound balcony. I like it a lot—I have plenty of space to stretch out. But the ceilings are low enough that I can touch them without standing on my toes. The windows are too small for me to use the fire escape, not that I’d trust the rusty fire escape to hold my weight. But at least my bed is big.
Not as big as this one, though.
I run a hand over my hair, the stiff rise of my faux-hawk catching at my palm. I should feel out of place here. Too much. Too rough. But I don’t.
Maybe it’s because this is Bailey’s. Maybe it’s because I’ve always known she was a little too much too. And I’ve never wantedless.
I head downstairs and find a pretty Latin woman in the kitchen. She has rich golden skin and a short black haircut, the kind I used to see soldiers wear on base. Jessica Rodriguez, according to the staff briefing.
She’s slicing apples with the kind of precision that tells me she’s been trained in more than childcare. She doesn’t flinch when I enter, just lifts her chin and says, “You eat like a bear or a wolf?”
“Bear,” I answer. “But less growling.”
She gives a satisfied nod and a short smile. “Good. I’m not the housekeeper. I’m the nanny. The kids are my job. You are not. Just so we’re clear.”
“Understood.” I like her already.
She motions to the fridge. “Help yourself. The kids are in the den. They know you’re staying, but they’re processing all of this upheaval, so tread lightly.”
“Will do.” I grab a bottle of water and make my way to the den, moving slow so I don’t accidentally knock a picture off the wall or scare anyone just by existing. Story of my life.
I find them on the couch. Maeve’s on one end, arms crossed, green eyes sharp. Eli’s curled on the other, one knee tucked under him, a hardcover book twice his size in his lap. Both freeze when they see me.
Maeve blinks up at me. “You’re huge.”
“Eh, yep,” I say.
