Page 28 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your big trip. But I’ll miss having you here, even if you do boss me around,” Mom teases.
I roll my eyes. “Reminding you to eat and take your medication isn’t bossing you around, Mom.”
The thought of leaving her fills me with dread. We may not be close, but she’s my mom, after all. If she needed someone, technically there’d be no one else to call aside from Emma, and the last thing I want is for Em to think I don’t have things under control. In the years she took care of Mom without me, she never once requested my help.
I wrap Mom in a goodbye hug that feels awkward and forced and grab my bags.
One summer. I can do this.
Chapter 12
Nolan
The media is impossible to miss when I arrive on the tarmac. They’re jammed like cattle into the designated media zone outside theChallenger—the PM’s refurbished Airbus A-330-200—chattering among themselves while busily setting up their equipment.
The media attention has been wild, and has gotten even worse since yesterday when news of the book broke.
Ivan and I are the first to arrive. There’s a lot that has to happen before the PM boards the plane, including ensuring the jet is free of explosives, weapons, nefarious surveillance equipment, all that fun stuff. I’m also helping Ivan verify the identities of all the passengers, including the captain and the flight attendant, and securing all the exits. And then there’s the media to keep at bay.
“Are they usually out here like this?” I ask him as I approach, jabbing my thumb in their general direction.
Ivan is standing outside the plane, surveying them. “For Eric, yes. Not usually in this volume, though, unless he’s leaving or returning from a high-profile visit.”
It’s a good thing there’s two of us, because over the next hour, more and more media personnel arrive. In my short time in the role, I recognize some familiar faces. They’re alert, ready, pens poised, hungry for a juicy headline. Some have tried to talk to me, casually asking me questions about Eric’s alleged affair, none of which I respond to.
When a black SUV rolls up, the energy shifts from anticipation to frenzy.
I hadn’t gotten word that the motorcade was arriving yet, so I head over to the car. Must be one of the press secretaries or advisers. The vehicle door swings open and the reporters on that side go wild. Based on the sheer rush of microphones and flashing cameras, I assume it’s the minister of environment. She’s joining for Eric’s announcement about a new electric car plant near Squamish.
Turns out, it’s Andi commanding the attention. Pathetically, her being on the trip is the thing I’ve been looking forward to most. A zing of hyperawareness shoots down my spine as I speed-walk to her.
By the time I approach the car door, she’s halfway out of the vehicle, balancing a tray of coffees, donuts, and a garment bag. And when the coffee teeters in her palm, the camera flashes quadruple, paparazzi desperate to capture anything remotely interesting.
“Andi, care to comment on the authenticity of your memoir?” one of the reporters shouts, jostling her way to the front.
“How long have you been having an affair with Eric Nichols?” another one asks.
She turns around and stares at them like a deer in headlights, shielding her face from the ridiculously bright camera flash. Her discomfort is palpable, almost painful. She looks fragile, small in her knit cardigan, frozen in place.
I position myself between her and the reporters like a shield, guiding her on board.
“Thank you,” she says gratefully, letting out an audible sigh of relief once we’re inside.
“No worries. That was intense.” I watch her closely, a pang of sympathy stirring as I set the coffee tray on a side ledge. “Do you usually get here so early?”
“No. Normally I come with Gretchen, but she’s riding with Eric and I’m not supposed to be seen or photographed anywhere near him, given the whole…scandal,” she explains, placing the donuts next to the coffee.
“Makes sense.” I’m surprised she’s even coming on the trip at all. Then again, I suppose it would be equally suspicious if she didn’t.
“Find any bombs?” she asks teasingly, righting her face only when Ivan arrows a stern look from where he’s verifying the emergency equipment.
“There were a few bombs stashed under the emergency peanuts, actually. Taken care of, though,” I assure, smiling reflexively.
“Damn. We probably shouldn’t joke about that. Isn’t it illegal to say ‘bomb’ on a plane?”
“It’s not illegal,” I note. “But probably frowned upon around the PM. Best to get it out of your system now.”
“Well, thank you for your service.” She pretends to salute me, plopping into the aisle seat in the first row. She immediatelywhips out a tablet from the leather bag over her shoulder and plugs it into a charger. “Hey, actually, I’m glad you’re here early. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
