Page 138 of Charming Like Us

She’s left her friend group to approach Charlie.

I glance back at Jack.

He’s lifted up his camera to film my client—returning to work too—but so much tension lines his muscles. He keeps shifting his weight like he can’t get comfortable.

Rip out your earpiece, Oliveira.

Go off-duty, go comfort him.

I can’t.

Like everyone on SFO, I made an oath the day I signed up to be a bodyguard. To put someone else above Charlie’s safety breaks that soul-bound promise.

So I keep my pace and roll to a stop in front of the sorority girl. “Sorry,” I say cordially. “You can’t approach him.”

Her face falls. “He knows me.”

I’ve heard that one a thousand times, but she’s right. Charlie does sort of know this sorority girl. Her face is familiar from one night in the past, but her name isn’t hitting me. “You still can’t approach.”

She lifts her sunglasses up to her blonde hair. “What if I wanted to give him something?” She plucks an envelope out of her straw beach bag.

Charlie Keating Cobaltis written neatly in black ink.

“He needs to read this.” She waves the envelope in my face. I follow her gaze that darts to another bodyguard.

More security in California is why I have a radio.

Gabe Montgomery, the short stocky blond-haired temp I trained, loiters around Jack Highland. Arms crossed, permanent scowl, his intimidation is on point, so the sorority girl isn’t considering negotiating with him over me.

Eliminates that potential headache.

I explain, “I can give Charlie the envelope if nothing hazardous is in there, but you can’t approach him or talk to him.” Truth: Charlie doesn’t open his fan mail. He throws it away.

Her friends start packing their towels, books, and beach bags.

They better be leaving and not coming over here.

“Can’t you just ask him?” she snaps.

“I already have.”

I did the second we reached the beach. I reestablished his wishes, and he said,no one talks to me.

She bristles. “Really?”

“Really.” I have no creative retort.

The #FireJackHighland tidal wave that just pummeled Jack—it’s still crashing against me and ramping up my impatience, and I’m proud of myself for not raising my voice. For keeping my fucking cool.

De-escalation is the name of the best bodyguard game.

“Give this to him then.” She hands me the envelope. “Make sure he gets it. You probably don’t remember me, but I spent the night with Charlie once. So it’sthatkind of important.”

She’s implying that she’s pregnant.

I don’t even bat an eyelash.

For one, I know way too much about Charlie’s sex life. He’s told me countless times, “Icumon women. Not in them.” I never talk aboutmysex life with him—Greenland was the first jolt of that between us—but Charlie will tread into TMI territory about his own.