Page 46 of The Bodyguard Affair
“A few years later, I overheard my mom bring it up to my dad. They were fighting all the time pre-divorce, and my mom had a lot of resentment toward him over our finances and his health issues. She actually comes from a really rich family, who disowned her when she married my dad. He didn’t have money or a stable job. He was a bit of a free spirit, kind of like my sister. Stability wasn’t exactly his main priority,” she explains.
“Damn. Must have put a lot of strain on the relationship.”
“Yup. She got sick of it all and left him and went back to her family, who introduced her to my stepdad, Dave. When we were in high school, she married him. He’s…the complete opposite of my dad. Stable, works in finance, has his shit together. The man even does his own taxes. Eats pizza with a knife and fork.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Is he okay?”
“That’s exactly what Amanda said. But he’s good for her, even if they don’t see each other often,” she says with a resigned shrug.
“They don’t?”
“He works a lot, travels. He’s barely home, based on what she tells me. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?”
I tilt my head. “Depends on who you ask.”
Half our lunch hour passes by in a blink by the time we update each other on the past few days since we got back to Ottawa. We keep it casual, seeing as we’re still under the watchful eyes of the lingering staff members near the door. With every minute that ticks by, I’m growing more and more aware that I’m deliberately wasting time—not that time feels wasted with her.
“Finally,” she groans, stretching her arms, eyeing the handful of staff as they head inside. We’re finally alone back here.
“Pretending to be my girlfriend is exhausting, huh?” I smile, piling the take-out containers.
“You’re not the problem. It’s being watched that weirds me out. It’s awkward.”
“Are people still being weird with you?” She mentioned in Squamish that the staff were either ignoring her entirely or being a little too friendly, trying to extract information.
“A little. There’s a lot of whispering going on. Though I suspect it’ll die down within a week,” she notes. “Anyway, thank you for bringing me lunch. I’m beyond full,” she says, stretching her arms over her head. “I think you might have to carry me back inside.”
“That’s too bad. We still have to eat this,” I say, taking a plastic container of cheesecake out of the brown bag.
Her eyes widen at the sight. “Hey! I thought I was the one who’s supposed to repay you with cheesecake.”
I fidget with the napkin in my lap, terrified to come out with it. “Well, speaking of. Before we head back inside, I actually did have one small—well, not really small—thing to ask. And please don’t laugh at me.”
She leans in, curious. “And you’re bribing me with cheesecake? And mozza sticks?”
“Yes.”
“Smart. I would do unspeakable things for cheese in any form.” She pops open the container, fork at the ready. When she moans, closing her eyes at the first bite, I smash my knee reflexively against the picnic table. Why am I so nervous?
“My mom,” I say, quickly rubbing my now sore knee. “She’s been on my ass about having a girlfriend.”
She raises a brow. “Really? Why?”
“Partially because she wants me out of her house. And mostly because she thinks I’m lonely. Apparently, I work too much and don’t prioritize my personal life,” I say honestly. “Which is ridiculous, because this gig is really tame compared to my last one.”
“Is that why you took this job? To be home more?” she asks gently through a bite.
In a manner of speaking, yes. But now feels like a bad time to get into the whole thing. Instead, I settle for, “Sort of. Until I get a new posting.”
“Right. A new posting.” I might be imagining it, but I think there’s a tinge of disappointment there. But before I can determine either way, she flourishes a hand in my direction. “Anyway, sorry, back to you. Your mom wants you to have a girlfriend.”
“Yeah. She’s been talking about setting me up with random women and I got frustrated and…well, I told her I had a girlfriend to get her off my back,” I say, horrified by hearing myself say it.
She lets out a low whistle, sitting back on the bench. “Wow, that’s quite the lie.”
“It just kind of came out,” I explain. “One minute, she was interrogating me. The next, I was telling her your name.”
“Let me guess, you need me to make an appearance or twoso she knows I’m not a figment of your imagination?” she clarifies, pointing at me with her fork.
