Page 15 of The Bodyguard Affair
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Don’t your sister and her young kids live in Ottawa, man?”
“Well, yeah. But—”
“Crosby, you should really consider some family time. A slower pace of life might be nice for you.”
I roll my eyes. It’s been great seeing Emma and the kids, but I’m not cut out for suburban uncle life. The mere thought of accepting her constant invitations to various apple orchards and petting zoo farms gives me hives. “A slower pace of life? What am I, ninety?”
Jones chuckles. “Nothing wrong with a little sedate, geriatric activity. Knitting improves hand-eye coordination.”
“Yeah. I’ll see if I can find the time in between fucking bingo and shuffleboard. If I don’t die of a boredom-induced heart attack before then,” I add darkly. I’m fully aware I’m acting like a self-indulgent child right now. And I feel like shit about it. I like Jones. I respect the hell out of him. He’s a retired special forces guy who started his own private security firm, where he contracts out internationally. In the two and a half years I’ve worked for him, he’s been great at keeping the postings flowing. Until now.
“See, that sunshiny personality is exactly why I hired you.”
I promptly ignore his sarcasm. “And like I said, I’ll go anywhere you want to send me. Antarctica, Nebraska, even Gary, Indiana—”
“Gary, Indiana? Jesus. You really are a desperate man.” He sighs, like he’s dealing with a young, highly stubborn child. “Look, I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. You won’t believe how hard it is to find someone who actually wants to go to Ottawa and replace you.” It’s a running joke that no one in their right mind would want a close protection posting in Ottawa, mostly because it’s known to be a snoozefest. It’s also viewed like a punishment. Somewhere you’re sent when you really fucked up on assignment. Jones literally did the running man when I told him I needed to take the Ottawa posting, however temporary.
“Oh, trust me, I believe it.” I snort, covering my mouth when Eric, of all people, peeks his head around the corner. I did not expect Eric—the PM of Canada—to be lurking around the employees’ break area. But I’m learning quickly that Eric is not your average PM. I hang up the phone immediately.
“There you are! I have someone I want you to meet,” Eric says, ushering me to follow him to his office.
He makes random conversation about the next hockey game as we head down the long, narrow corridors of his residence. The route to the main bedroom is complicated. I know, because I spent days studying the floor plan of this place.
I hover outside the doorway for a moment, assuming he’s officially introducing me to his kids or something.
Only, it’s not his kids. He steps aside, revealing a woman.
It hits me instantly. The slight upturn of her nose. The fullness of her lips.
It’s Andi. The woman I ghosted three years ago on the tail end of one of the worst weeks of my life.
I’ve thought about her a fair bit (a fucking lot) since that night. Lying in her bed eating cheesecake, talking about herwriting, and harshly judging names. It was the most fun I’d had in a long time, and a welcome distraction from reality.
She eventually fell asleep mid-conversation, so I left. Part of me has always regretted not leaving my number at the bottom of the note I left her. But I wasn’t looking to be tied down. That still hasn’t changed.
When she spots me, she makes agahsound reminiscent of an ailing walrus, and her eyes go from curious to horrified. Her mouth is curled into an accusatory frown as she clutches her chest, conducting a slow inspection, starting at my feet. When she reaches my face, her eyes widen in recognition. At least, I think so.
“Um…” For a second, I think she’s going to acknowledge that we know each other. But she doesn’t.
“Hi,” I finally manage, my voice cracking like I’m twelve years old again as I take her in. She looks the same as she did that night. Hair in a bun, tweed skirt, black tights, and an oversized sweater. The hot librarian look has never really done it for me. Until now.
She slow-blinks, her expression uncomfortably vacant, lips pressed into a thin line. Her posture goes rigid and guarded, fingers interlaced in front of her, tense as fuck. Just like it was that night in the bar.
The silence stretches and my stomach plummets. Either she doesn’t remember me at all, or she does and absolutely hates my guts. I wouldn’t blame her. It was a classic dick move to leave without notice, even if I did build her desk.
“I’m Nolan Crosby,” I add in a rather pathetic attempt to extract a morsel of recognition out of her. A bead of sweat drips down my temple, and I have half a mind to turn around and run. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I read her? In all my yearsof service, I’ve never been this fucking nervous. I’m officially malfunctioning.
“Nolan,” she repeats, slow and assessing, gaze still focused on some point in the middle distance. “I’m Andi.”
Thankfully, Eric cuts in. “Andi Zeigler is Gretchen’s personal assistant. She’s the best,” he explains. “And Nolan is from Hexcorp. Former special forces.”
Andi slow-nods, seemingly unimpressed. Not that I blame her. “Welcome to the team.”
I scratch the back of my head, trying to suppress the urge to ask if she remembers me. I’m not sure I can handle the embarrassment if she doesn’t. Or worse, the possibility that she actually did hear my confession that night and has decided I’m an awful person, which, fair.
“Andi, can we talk?” Eric asks, snapping me out of spiraling completely. Putting the job first comes naturally to me. It’s what I’ve always done, because distractions can be deadly.
I dip my chin and say “Thank you” before stepping out to give them some privacy.
