Page 36 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Nope. And I don’t plan to. Similar to yours, my job doesn’t leave much time for dating. Or writing, for that matter.”
“Right. Well, maybe we’ll just need some practice,” he suggests, far too casually.
“Practice,” I repeat, staunchly ignoring the prickles of heat spiking down my back. “Practice kissing?”
“By practice, I mean a very regimented, highly professional practice session.” When he senses some hesitation from me, he adds, “No one is going to believe we’re together if we don’t kiss.”
“Some couples aren’t that touchy. Especially in a professional setting, which we’d be in,” I point out, a little too harshly.
He appears to disagree. “It wouldn’t be natural to me. If I’m with someone, I’m going to want to kiss them. Touch them. Regardless of where we are.”
My elbow jerks involuntary at the words “kiss” and “touch,” knocking the spare spoon off the end of the table with a clatter. “All right. Sure. We’ll practice,” I say, leaning down to pick it up.
“Deal.”
I lean forward. “Can I ask, what do you get out of all of this? Or are you just doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”
His eyes sparkle in the glow of the fireplace. “You don’t think I’m generous like that?”
“I just…assumed there was something you get out of it.” After working in politics for so long, it’s difficult to imagine people being motivated by the goodness of their hearts, with nothing to gain for themselves.
He tilts his head in consideration. “Well, I would take payment in the form of cheesecake.”
A giggle rises out of me. Maybe Nolan is the exception. “Ah, right. The cheesecake. That’s a very noble and understandable motive. I think I can appease you. Though it has to be store-bought. I can’t bake for shit.”
“Deal.” He pauses, assessing me for a beat. “In all seriousness, it would be cool to hang out. You know, as friends.”
Friends.I like the sound of that.
Chapter 16
Nolan
Mom has been texting me nonstop since I left. Mostly, she has questions about where I left certain things, like her slippers. Otherwise, it’s pictures of flowers in the garden, her tea, her and Theresa on a walk, a squirrel in the yard. She also uses excessive emojis, which drives me nuts.
As a kid, I would have died for her attention. Any measly scrap of attention. Emma and I lived for those rare five-minute phone conversations. When all you know are weeks, sometimes months, of silence for most of your life, the sudden bombardment of messages feels like overkill.
It sounds terrible, but every time Mom’s name appears on my phone, I’m overcome with anxiety. I never know if it’s bad news or not, just like I never knew whether she was calling to tell Emma and me she’d be back in a few days, or she didn’t know how long she’d be gone. Usually it was the latter.
I still remember her cheerful voice telling us, “Absence makesthe heart grow fonder,” like that could ever resonate with a ten-year-old.
Mom likes to refer to those years as her “struggling musician” days, not bothering to acknowledge the months, even years, at a time when she’d leave Emma and me to be shuffled from family member to family member or family friend. She was always off with random boyfriends who she thought would help her “make it” in the music industry so she wouldn’t have to keep singing shitty ’80s covers in grimy bars. And every time she’d turn back up (out of the blue), we’d be living somewhere new. I can’t actually remember more than six consecutive months that she’d stuck around after I was five years old.
I react to her photos with a casual thumbs-up, admittedly grateful she’s getting exercise and spending time in nature. It was the number one recommendation from the doctors to keep her physically and mentally active. Then, I toss my phone onto the desk chair and stare up at the popcorn ceiling, trying to cleanse my mind.
“Are you okay in there?” I call toward the bathroom door. Andi has been in there for nearly half an hour since we got back from the restaurant. And while I know from growing up with Em that a skin care routine can take time, this seems a little excessive.
“Uh, yeah. All good,” she croaks from behind the door. She doesn’t sound great. Maybe she’s a little lightheaded from the elevation. Or worse, uncomfortable with me.
“You sure? Look, if you don’t want to share a room, I can head down to the lobby right now and book a separate room on my own card. Gretchen won’t have to know.”
A pause. “No. It’s not that. I promise.”
“Okay. Then what is it?”
“I didn’t realize we’d be sharing a room, obviously. So I only packed one pair of pajamas.”
“Well, at least you packed some. All I have is boxers,” I offer as a consolation.
