Page 56 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
She softens a little. Not much. Just enough to let me see the kid under the attitude.
We sit outside, under one of the pink umbrellas. It’s too bright. Too normal. The sun hits my sunglasses just right, making the world hazy. Maeve props her chin on her hand, stirring her sundae like it wronged her personally. “How long does this last?”
“The bleeding?”
She nods, frowning.
“Usually five to seven days. Sometimes less. The cramps usually calm down after the first couple.”
She grimaces. “It feels like my stomach’s trying to eat itself.”
I laugh, then wince. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
She goes quiet for a second. “I know it was a thousand years ago, but do you remember your first one?”
I let the age thing slide and nod slowly. “Too well.”
“What was it like?”
I think about lying. Then don’t. “It was…confusing. And lonely. Nana wasn’t great with that stuff. She just handed me a box of pads and told me not to get pregnant.”
Maeve snorts. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. Also, don’t get pregnant.”
She smirks and pokes at her ice cream. “Thanks for not being weird about it.”
“I was weird about it.”
“You were weird in a good way.”
That catches me off guard. I’m not used to compliments from Maeve. For the past year, she’s been practicing her snarkiness for her teenage years. “Thanks, baby.”
She shrugs. “You could’ve gone full Instagram Mom on me. Balloons. Hashtag redtentvibes.”
“Tempting.”
“Not funny.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. And it’s nice. Almost like I have my little girl again.
For the first time in what feels like days, I’m not thinking about scripts or sympathetic judges or David. I’m just sitting here with my daughter, letting her be a girl with too many emotions and too much sugar and a uterus that just declared war.
Then I hear it. The click. Then another.
I turn my head.
Two men. One with a Canon. One with a phone.
Parked across the street. Pretending to look at a menu. One of them raises the camera again and aims right at us. None of them are the paparazzi I work with, which means Mira didn’t call these guys.
Unsolicited paparazzi are an utter menace.
“Shit.”
Maeve follows my gaze. “Are those?—?”
“Yeah.” My heart kicks hard. We’re exposed. Unprotected. Just us and the sidewalk and a Range Rover I parked a block down to avoid being recognized.
