Page 30 of The Bodyguard Affair
There are whispers from the front of the plane. I try to strain to listen to their conversation, only picking up bits and pieces from where I’m sitting at the back of the jet.
It’s really a problem.
Have to deal with it sooner rather than later.
Whether Gretchen likes it or not.
Oh god. This doesn’t sound good.
My stomach twists. What if they’re right? What if Gretchen decides it’s not worth the media spectacle so close to the election? What if she fires me, or is forced to? This kind of rumor is the worst-case scenario for an election campaign. The last thing they need is me being photographed anywhere near Eric. Every photo, every look, scrutinized by the public for any sign of a torrid romance between us, which, frankly, is laughable. Compared to Gretchen, who’s basically a supermodel, I look like a Smurf in a dowdy cardigan.
I glance at her. She’s still reclined, mask back on, hands folded over her chest like an Egyptian mummy. I thought she might stick up for me, remind everyone that she’s the one who insisted I come on the trip despite the controversy. But she remains in tomb position.
“Don’t worry about them,” Nolan whispers, slipping into the aisle seat across from me.
The moment our eyes meet, I consider ripping the Band-Aid off and asking him to be my pretend boyfriend right here, right now. But how does one casually ask for that kind of favor?
Oh, hello, Nolan. You barely know me, but will you do me the honor of being my fake boyfriend so people don’t think I’m sleeping with the prime minister?
Would you be willing to risk your new job to lie on my behalf? I’ll name a character in my next book after you.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to kiss me in public. I’ll try not to cut your lip with my teeth this time.
God. The possibilities just keep getting worse.
He could have a girlfriend, a fiancée, a wife, multiple children for all I know. So naturally, I sit there in agonizing silence, pretending to be engrossed with the ultraserious task of choosing a template while internally spiraling about what my life has come to.
About an hour into the flight, Gretchen comes to the back. She no longer looks like she wants to kill me. In fact, when she crouches down in the aisle between Nolan’s and my seats, her face breaks into a grin. I guess her nap did wonders.
“You know, I was thinking, you two should take the night off when we get there. Maybe go on a date or something. Remember that restaurant you booked for us for my birthday last year? The one that served rattlesnake and kangaroo?” Gretchen asks, glancing eagerly between me and Nolan.
Between snake and kangaroo in a food context, it takes me a moment to register what she’s just said.A date.When Nolan flashes me a look that screams,What in the world is this woman talking about?, my stomach descends into my asshole.
Oh no.
No. No. No.
A nasty smoker’s cough rockets out of my throat, and it turns the heads of all the passengers up front. Even the stewardess springs into action to bring me a glass of water. I’ve never wanted to disintegrate into the fabric of the chair more than I do right now. Now would be a good time for the oxygen masks to drop from the ceiling. Even a brown paper bag would do.
“Oh, um, thanks for the suggestion,” I manage through a wheeze, praying she’ll leave without another word.
She does not. “It’s superromantic. Tell them you work for me and see if they’ll give you guys a mountain view. Oh, and make sure you two amend the room booking,” she says, winking at a very confused Nolan.
He sits forward, brows creased. “Room booking?”
“You two have separate rooms. You only need one since you’re together. Best to cut costs for trips like this, especially before the election. It’ll be audited and scrutinized each way to Sunday,” she says with a knowing brow raise before slinking off back to her seat.
Nolan turns in my direction, gifting me with a bewildered expression. “What was that all about? Is it normal for employees to…share rooms?”
“Um—no.” Shit. How do I even begin to explain? “For the record, I’m really, really sorry.” Sorry seems like a good place to start.
“Sorry? For what?”
I peer around, ensuring everyone is occupied or out of earshot. “Gretchen thinks we’re dating,” I whisper, lightning fast.
He blinks in rapid succession, seemingly too stunned to speak. I can’t tell if he didn’t understand my mumble, or if he’s as appalled as I am with myself. “Wait, what? Why would she think that?”
“She saw us coming out of the storage closet and assumed we were canoodling in there.”
