Page 110 of The Right Sign

I ask her to repeat. “What was that?”

She finger spells.

G-o-o-n-s

My goons? I shake my head. “I didn’t have you followed.”

“Like you would admit it.”

“Yaya, I swear to you that I don’t have anyone following you.”

I do have Clay Bolton interviewing female bodyguards as I plan to offer Yaya her own protection team now that our relationship is public, but no one has been chosen yet since I need someone who knows ASL.

“Well, if it wasn’t you then who was it?” Yaya rocks her neck, both eyebrows arched with an extra dose of sass.

I don’t know, but I plan on finding out.

It’s upsetting to me that someone might be following her. I need Clay to find me a suitable protection team ASAP.

“Could you have been mistaken?” I ask hopefully.

“You think I’m lying?” Yaya’s on the defensive. Her eyes dart back and forth between mine in frustration, as if she’s looking for anything to throw at me.

Calmly, I respond, “No, I don’t think you’re lying. I think the world is a dangerous place and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Yaya’s popularity has skyrocketed. She’s undeniably beautiful, talented and charismatic. Gaining fame overnight drew a lot of attention to her and the deaf community, which is good. But it might also draw out the mentally unstable folks.

Which is bad.

“If you notice anyone following you or see anything strange, no matter what it is, text me.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Yaya.” I say it out loud and then I remember that I need to sign. Lifting my hands, I order, “I need to know you’re safe.I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”

She tenses, and I wonder if I’ve offended her. It’s a suspicion that solidifies when she suddenly raises her chin and fillets me with a look that could peel dead skin straight off the bone.

“We have a photoshoot to finish. Let’s get it over with.”

I remain in place. “We can end it here.”

There. A tweak of her perfect eyebrow. “End what?”

“The photoshoot. You seemed uncomfortable,” I sign. “With me. Or the romantic theme.”

“I’m not.”

“Have you modeled with a partner before?”

She makes a motion like the shape of underwear.

I haven’t learned the word in ASL, but I understand the shape she’s making. Jealousy consumes me like an exploding bomb. I imagine other men getting to view Yaya’s supple skin, touching her curves, inching their way over her body for a camera.

Nerves wound tight, I drag in some much needed air. “How often did you do underwear shoots?”

Yaya glances at my pinched mouth and a slow, teasing smile tugs at her lips. She signs with loose shoulders, “Often enough to make me really good atit.”

“It?” I sign back, trembling slightly.

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