Page 92 of Charming Like Us

OSCAR OLIVEIRA

Red velveteen boxedseats at an ornate operatic theatre, home to one of the most prestigious New York ballet companies—it’s fit for royalty, so no one should be surprised a Cobalt would be here.

Least of allme.The man guarding one.

I adjust my earpiece, the chair hard under my ass despite it looking soft. Only four seats occupy the box, and my client is sprawled out across the front two.

Charlie is sleeping, the program forRomeo & Julietsplayed over his eyes. He rarely looks tired. Rarely, if ever, yawns because he finds random and opportune times to catch sleep.

A good distance from my client, Jack and I are seated behind him. Giving Charlie and us space.

With the dimmed theatre lighting and the orchestra playing sweeping songs from one of the most classic, tragic love stories, I’m lured into the sensuality and romance of the ballet. Especially with Jack sitting next to me.

We wear well-tailored black tuxes. Like we’re the kings for the night.

Our eyes keep snagging, holding a beat too long, and I’ve edged closer to Highland. My arm wants to splay over his chair like we’re on a date.

Nothing has felt more like afirst datethan this moment with him. And I’m on-duty—how nuts is that?

My gaze melts over his neck. No more angry patches mar his skin from poison ivy. The Charity Fun Run is a couple days in the past.

And right now, Jack sucks on a lime sucker, the ball pushed against the inside of his mouth. It’s driving me mother-effing wild. I run my fingers across my jaw, and his glittering eyes smile more than his lips. While he watches the ballerinas, he whispers to me, “Would you attend the ballet if it weren’t for Charlie?”

I hadn’t given it too much thought. “Probably not.” My voice is hushed next to his ear. “I appreciate the ballet, but it’s not something that completely interests me.” I look him up and down. “What about you, Highland?”

“Probablyyes.” He tilts his head to me. “I really love art.”

He is a filmmaker, and I start wondering if his family approves of his profession. “Are your parents pro-arts?”

He shifts the sucker with his tongue. “I’d say they’re more pro-business. They respect what I do, especially after I’ve succeeded, but they would’ve preferred I went into some sort of finance sector.”

Finance?

I don’t crunch numbers all day. I chose a career that outwardly showcases brawn more than intelligence, and not everyone can see how much common sense, strategy, and brains it takes to be a damn good bodyguard.

What if his parents envisioned him with a business-minded entrepreneur?

That’s not you, Oliveira.

My chest tightens. What do I care? It’s not like we’re a couple, and I might never meet his parents. But I do know Jack’s family means a lot to him, and naturally, I don’t just want to be on their good side or best side, but rather theirfavoriteside.

He lowers his voice to explain, “My parents weren’t always as business savvy as they are now. My dad—Jack Sr. served in the Navy. During a mission in the Philippines he met the love of his life, Eleonor Loanzon.”

“Your mom?” I whisper.

“Yeah.” He has a softer smile when he talks about his family. Like he’s cradling all the loving memories. “Anyway, she studied nursing at the University of Santo Tomas in Manila. Their ambitions started out practical, but she quit nursing after they got married. His service ended, and they both wound up in my dad’s hometown.”

“Long Beach?” I ask.

“Long Beach,” he confirms with a nod. “They chose a new path together and went all-in on real estate, and it panned out.” I can’t ask more; he’s too quick with a question. “Would your parents hate the ballet?”

I nod strongly. “Oh yeah. Without a doubt.” We stare ahead as a ballerina playing Juliet floats across the stage, and I add, “Though, my mom will enjoy anything the first and hundredth time. She really relishes in the experience.”

Speaking of my mom.

My phone vibrates in my fist. I silence the fifth call from her tonight and text:I’m on-duty.

The biggest meltdown on the Oliveira crisis line yesterday was a fictional death on a Brazilian novela. My mom rehashed the entire episode over the phone to me before I had to cut her off, and I expect today’s catastrophe to be similar.