Page 93 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
Because a sweetheart by industry standards is still a man with a fortress, and Bailey’s inside it without me. But at least I can breathe again.
The sun dips beyond the horizon, blanketing the world in lavender and gray. Perfect time to climb over the wall. I land with a thud on the inside, and still, no guards. No dogs. Nothing.
He’s either too trusting or too old to care about security.
A wide drive curls through manicured grounds, lined with palms that sway in the ocean breeze like performers waiting for a cue. Fountains erupt in marble basins, their spray catching the last light and throwing diamonds into the air. Bougainvillea drapes across walls in thick bursts of purple and red, spilling over like the place itself can’t contain its excess.
And the land. God. Acres upon acres, rolling down toward the cliffs, terraced gardens carved into the slope. Olive trees line the paths, their silvery leaves shifting like whispers. Statues dot the corners—angels, lions, Roman gods, all staring blankly out at the Pacific as if they own it.
It’s obscene. It’s beautiful.
Hollywood.
I move along the outer wall, keeping low. I find a spot where the wall curves and a cluster of eucalyptus branches press close. I climb, settling into the crook of a tree that leans just far enough to give me a vantage point through the branches. From here, I can see the main house rising at the center of the estate, Bailey’s SUV tucked neatly into the circular drive.
I breathe out slow, steadying myself. Bailey doesn’t know how dangerous it is to walk into palaces like this. She doesn’t see the teeth behind the smiles, the traps behind the gates. She believes too easily. Trusts too fast. And me? I’m stuck out here, perched in a tree, watching over her like some shadow she’ll never thank me for being.
Still. I’d rather break her trust than see her broken.
I shift, testing the branches under my boots, making sure they’ll hold. The binoculars are cool in my hands, lenses pulling the world closer. I sweep the grounds, cataloguing movement. A gardener hauling a hose. Two staff in pale uniforms crossing the drive with trays.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket—Wesley checking in. I thumb out a quick reply:She’s at Friedburg’s. All quiet. Hold the house.
I get a thumbs-up in return.
I adjust in the crook of the tree, stretching my legs until the bark presses rough through my pants. My body knows how to wait. I’ve done it in jungles, deserts, frozen forests—waiting is the half of the job recruiters fail to mention.
Through the binoculars, I catch a glimpse of her in the lounge. She’s in conversation, gestures animated, her hair catching the light. Even at this distance I can tell she’s nervous. She always tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s trying to cover it.
Friedburg stands with her, talking too much, hands sweeping wide, his voice carrying even faintly to me when he laughs. He’s in a good mood.
She’s fine. This is what she came for—industry business, the kind of meeting she couldn’t tell us about because we’d never let her go alone.
In the distance, tires crunch on gravel. My shoulders stiffen. Another guest at the party? A co-star perhaps?
Will they run lines? Will they kiss to check the chemistry?
My stomach twists at the thought. I know she’s an actress. It’s just a part of the job. But every time I’ve watched one of her films and she was intimate with her co-star, I saw red.
Not that I’d ever tell her. She doesn’t need to know that. I’d never taint her job with my jealousy.
Odd that it never hits with Wesley or Huck. They just feel like extensions of me, I guess.
I swing the binoculars toward the drive. My heart stops when I see an SUV I recognize.
The driver’s door opens after it parks, and out steps David. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look around like a man invited under duress. He belongs here.
My blood goes hot.
Friedburg comes forward, smiling wide, arms open. He clasps David’s hand like an old friend, pats his shoulder, ushers him inside as if this is nothing new.
I lower the binoculars, grip tightening until the rubber creaks.
Bailey’s inside. With him.
31
WESLEY
