Page 24 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Andi has denied it,” Ivan notes, which makes me sad. “Eric and Gretchen aren’t putting much stock into the rumors. But given the accusations of sensitive insider information in the book, we need to do our due diligence and investigate.” Ivan slides the book toward me on the table. “The honor goes to you. As the newest member of the team. Some nice plane reading for Squamish tomorrow.”
I pick up the book, running my finger over the glossy cover in awe.
All the guys around the table crack up. It pisses me off, the way they’re eyeing maybe-Andi’s-book derisively like it’s trash or something. Now I understand why she was so against people knowing about her books to begin with. I’m tempted to tell them off and ask if they’ve written any whole-ass novels lately, but I hold my tongue. If she’s claiming she didn’t write it, the last thing she needs is me drawing attention to it.
Mike tips his chin to me as I stand. “Happy reading, Crosby.”
Never thought part of my job would entail reading a romance novel, but here I am.
The moment I step into the hallway, a figure pushes me to the right. It’s Andi, using her entire body weight to shove me toward a random, nondescript hallway door. Realistically, she can’t move me an inch unless I let her. So I do.
We’re in a dusty storage closet. It’s dark, though my eyesadjust fairly quickly. The shelves are neatly filled with maintenance tools, linens, fine china, and crystal glassware I assume is reserved for official dinners. There’s a stack of miscellaneous paintings and historic-looking household items piled in the corner, alongside boxes hand-labeled as state gifts. There’s an antique side table to the left, its ornate legs jutting out at an odd angle, leaving little space for us to squeeze in comfortably.
We’re practically chest to chest, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath skating across my throat. It’s a little exciting, if I’m honest, until I see the look on her face. Her eyes are narrowed into a furious look that could wither the entire vase of Gretchen’s fresh flowers on the table in the hall.
“We need to talk,” she announces, poking me hard in the chest while eyeing the copy ofThe Prime Minister & Metucked under my arm.
I swallow. “Uh, in a storage closet?”
She ignores that, piercing me with an accusatory stare. “Was it you who leaked the story? Don’t lie.”
Ah. That’s what this is about. “Of course not.” Frankly, I’m really fucking offended she would think that.
She conducts a scrutinizing once-over. “Because you’re the only person who was at the restaurant last night. And you’re the only one who knows I write romance.”
I level her with acome onlook. “If you don’t count the harpist, the waiter, the chef, and all the other customers in the main dining room. And I never even told anyone we knew each other, let alone that you were a writer.”
She lowers her shoulders slightly, her fingers flexing and twisting at her sides. “I’m sorry for accusing you. I’m just really…stressed.”
“Stressed because you’re the real author?” I wager.
Her brows furrow. “No, of course I’m not.”
I study her face for the truth. It’s a source-handling technique that I’ve always been good at. Liars tend to either avoid eye contact or overcompensate by staring a little too long. Andi has never been one to make prolonged eye contact, so it’s difficult to tell.
Liars also tend to fidget, touch their face, or make rapid movements with their hands when under a microscope, which she’s doing.
“I didn’t write it,” she repeats, her lips pursed.
It takes all of five seconds for her to buckle under my stare.
“Fine. I wrote it. It’s my book,” she admits, leaning her whole body weight on the shelf behind her, as if the admission extracted all her remaining energy.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I pull her in for a hug. “You actually did it! Do you even realize how freakin’ amazing that is?” I say as I pull back. It’s a complete understatement, of course.
Even three years and published books later, she still can’t handle the compliment. Instead, she buries her face in her hands, peeking at me through the crack. “But you should know, the book has nothing to do with Eric. Or me. I’ve never thought of him like that, ever. I was just…writing what I knew, I guess.”
“You don’t need to convince me. And I’m really proud of you,” I say genuinely.
She tips her head, evidently not in the mood to celebrate her achievements right now, which is fair. Her job is on the line. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”
Technically, this is a huge conflict of interest. I’m supposedto be investigating this. At the same time, it’s none of my business, or anyone else’s, what she does with her own time. So I look her in the eye. “Andi, it’s fine. I would never tell anyone. It’s no one’s business but yours,” I assure her. And I mean it.
She steadies herself against the shelf of linens, hands on hips. “God, this is a nightmare.”
“It is.”
“I mean, you were there last night. Nothing about that exchange seemed inappropriate, right?”
