Page 10 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

Ford

“You, Gemma Quinn, caffeine addict of the highest order, are telling me you don’t want coffee?” I ask, still holding out the mug.

She waves it off with a distracted smile. “Not feeling it today.”

In the month we’ve been living together, she’s never once turned down coffee. She drinks it black, like medicine, gets this little satisfied sigh after the first sip. It’s become part of our morning routine—I make it, she drinks it, we settle into the day.

“You sure? It’s that Ethiopian single-origin you had me order from Blue Bottle.”

“I’m sure.” She rubs her temples. “I think I might be coming down with something. Maybe I’ll just go lie down for a bit.”

Something’s off. She went to bed early last night, barely touched dinner, and now this. People in my line of work notice patterns.

“Okay.” I set the mug on the counter. “Get some rest.”

She disappears into the bedroom, and I’m left standing in the kitchen with cooling coffee and a nagging feeling I can’t shake.

The last few days have been different between us.

Softer. I’ve been sleeping without a shirt in the dark, small progress after she saw my scars and didn’t flinch.

She’s been coming to bed without makeup more often, letting me see her real face.

We’ve been learning each other’s edges, falling into a pattern that feels dangerous and addictive.

Which makes her current distance feel more pronounced.

I shake it off and head for the shower. Probably nothing. People have off days.

Twenty minutes later, I’m toweling off when my phone rings. JJ’s name flashes on the screen.

“Tell me you have good news.”

“Not exactly. Tim’s credit card pinged again this morning. Gas station about six blocks from your location.”

My blood runs cold. “Six blocks?”

“Could be coincidence,” but his tone suggests he doesn’t believe it. “He’s only used his card twice in the last three weeks—both ATMs, staying smart about it. But this morning he switched up and used it for gas.”

“So now he’s in the neighborhood.” I throw on pants and a clean shirt as I head for the bedroom, phone pressed to my ear.

“Looks that way. Could mean your location’s compromised, could mean he’s just passing through. Hard to say.”

If Tim’s that close, we need to reassess everything. Security protocols, exit strategies, whether this location is still viable.

“I need to brief Gemma first. Get her ready in case we need to move quickly.”

“Copy that. I can be there in twenty if you need backup.”

“Let me talk to her and check the feeds, then I’ll call you back.”

I push open the bedroom door, expecting to find her curled up under the covers.

Empty.

“Gemma?” I call out, louder than necessary. Maybe she’s in the bathroom.

I check. Nothing.

My pulse kicks up a notch. I move through the safehouse systematically—living room, kitchen, even the surveillance room. She’s not here.

“Gemma!” This time I’m shouting.

Silence.

I rush to the surveillance room and pull up the security feeds on the monitors. I scroll back through the footage, watching in reverse until I see it—Gemma slipping out the front door twenty-three minutes ago. Right after I got in the shower.

While I was standing under hot water, completely oblivious, she walked out into a city where a predator was hunting her.

“She’s gone.” The words come out hollow. “She’s fucking gone.”

My chest tightens. Vision starts to tunnel at the edges.

No, not now. I need to stay present, need to think, but my body’s already betraying me.

The taste of dust and cordite. Mason bleeding out while I pressed my hands to the wound, watching the life drain from his eyes because I made the wrong call.

I drag in a shaky breath. Focus. Gemma’s not Mason. This isn’t a warzone.

My hands shake as I pull out my phone to track her location. Thank fuck for standard protocol—every client gets a tracking app installed on day one. The tracker shows her fifteen blocks away at an address I don’t recognize. What the hell is she doing?

I need to get to her before Tim does.

I call JJ back, my voice tight. “She’s gone. Tracking shows her fifteen blocks away.”

“Want me to meet you there?”

“No, I need you on surveillance. I’m texting you the address now. See if you can get eyes on her through any nearby cameras.”

I’m out the door before he can respond.

The address leads me to a small medical office building. Through the windows, I spot Gemma’s distinctive copper hair in what looks like a waiting room, and my lungs finally start working again. She’s alive. She’s safe.

My knees almost buckle. I want to run in there and touch her, just to make sure. But then I do what I’ve trained myself to do: check the perimeter. Always check the perimeter.

And then I see him.

Tim Roberts, partially hidden behind a parked car across the street. Watching the clinic. Watching her.

Rage floods my chest. That fucking bastard.

Training kicks in. I call for backup while keeping visual contact, but Tim spots me and bolts.

I’m after him in a heartbeat. My boots hammer the pavement, heart kicking harder with every step.

The chase is brief but intense—two blocks through narrow alleys before I tackle him behind a dumpster.

He goes down hard, and for a moment I want to keep hitting him.

For stalking her. For scaring her. For making me feel like I failed before anything actually happened.

But I don’t. I hold him down until the cavalry arrives.

“We belong together,” Tim pants against the asphalt, his face pressed into the concrete. “She just needs to see it.”

The words make my skin crawl. The guy’s fucking unhinged.

One of the responding officers approaches me as they load Tim into a squad car. “You’re going to want to see what we found in his vehicle.”

I follow him to a beat-up sedan parked a block over. The trunk is open, revealing a carefully organized collection that makes my blood turn to ice: zip ties, duct tape, a knife, and a notebook, opened to a page where her name is scrawled dozens of times.

“This wasn’t just stalking,” the officer says grimly. “This was preparation.”

The breath I take feels like fire. I picture Gemma walking out of that clinic, completely unaware. Him across the street, watching. With restraints in his fucking trunk. What if I’d stayed in the shower another ten minutes? What if I hadn’t checked the feeds?

The scenarios multiply in my head, each one worse than the last.

I need to get to her. My statement to the cops can wait. I turn back toward the clinic, desperate to touch her, to make sure she’s real and safe, when I see her coming out of the building. She looks pale, almost fragile.

I close the distance between us in seconds, pulling her into my arms before I can think.

She’s solid, warm, real. For a moment I just hold her, breathing her in, letting the terror finally start to drain out of my chest. But relief is a short-lived drug.

Because now that I know she’s safe, I can’t stop thinking about how close I came to losing her.

“Why would you leave without telling me?” The words come out harsher than I intend, but the adrenaline and fear are still coursing through my veins. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? He was here, Gemma. Tim was watching the clinic with zip ties and a fucking knife in his car.”

“Zip ties?” she repeats, voice thin. “He was going to?—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Her face goes pale. Then something fiery settles behind her eyes.

“He didn’t come to scare me.” Her voice is resolute. “He came to take me.”

Her hands tremble. She looks away. The anger drains out, leaving something else behind. Something gutted and still.

She’s somewhere else now. Not afraid. Not furious. Just…hollow.

“Look, it’s over now,” I say, trying to ground us both. “Tim’s in custody. You’re safe.”

But instead of relief, her face crumples.

“It’s not that,” she whispers.

I frown. “Then what?—?”

She looks at the cop cars, the bystanders, the edge of the sidewalk like she’s trying to hold herself together.

Then she turns back to me, eyes bright and wet.

“I’m pregnant, Ford.”

The world tilts sideways.

“I’m sorry I left without telling you, but I wasn’t sure and I just needed to know for myself. I thought I’d be back quickly.”

Pregnant.

The word echoes in my head like a gunshot in an empty room. My mind races, calculating dates, but the math is obvious.

“Is it—” I start, then stop myself. Stupid question.

“Obviously,” she says, and there’s a flash of hurt in her eyes that cuts right through me.

“But we used protection,” I say, still trying to process.

“That first condom looked pretty old,” she admits quietly. “And I was late refilling my birth control because of everything…hiding out, the stress.”

Everything clicks into place: the fatigue, the declined coffee, the weird mood. The knowledge that she’s carrying my child should feel like joy. But instead, it detonates something deep and ugly inside me.

My brain short-circuits. I see her hands, her stomach, the quiet way she said it—and all I can think is: what if I fail them both?

Not in a firefight. Not with blood on the ground.

Just… in all the quiet, invisible ways you don’t see coming until it’s too late. The ones that sneak up when you’re not ready, when you think you’ve got it handled.

That’s how it happens. One moment of softness. One missed threat. One wrong call.

And someone doesn’t come home.

I held Mason’s life in my hands and still lost him. And now there’s her. And a baby. And all I can see is the moment I miss something and lose them too.

How do you protect something that small, that breakable, when you couldn’t even save a grown man at your side? You don’t. You walk away before you make it worse.

“I…can’t.” The words scrape out of my throat like broken glass. “I’m not the guy for this.”

I watch her face fall. But only for a moment before she pulls herself together. She’s calm. Steady. Like she’s already figured out how to do this without me.

And maybe that’s what undoes me most.

“You don’t have to do anything right now,” she says, stepping closer. Her voice is soft, careful. “We don’t have to figure it all out. I just?—”

“I can’t do this.” I cut her off, not unkindly but with finality.

My hand twitches toward her before I yank it back. If I touch her, I won’t be able to let go.

“Ford.” Her tone is different now. Quieter, steadier. “I’m not asking for forever. Just... don’t disappear.”

That nearly breaks me. She doesn’t cry or beg or demand explanations. She just asks me not to vanish. She’s giving me a way out. No pressure. Just stay.

And I still can’t say yes.

I pull out my phone, calling for a car to take her home. My voice sounds mechanical, professional. Like I’m arranging transport for any other client.

“I’ll have your things sent to Victoria’s,” I tell her, not meeting her eyes.

I force the words out, even though it feels like betrayal. Like I’m severing something I already miss.

The silence stretches between us, filled with the distant sounds of traffic and sirens.

“Are you really walking away?” she asks finally, and the vulnerability in her voice nearly destroys me.

I force myself to look at her then. She’s got one hand resting unconsciously on her stomach, waiting for me to change my mind. But I won’t. My pulse is rushing in my ears, and I’m on autopilot now. I need to get out of here before I break.

“Tim’s in custody,” I say, my voice flat. “The threat’s neutralized. You’re safe. You don’t need me anymore.”

She stares at me like I just hit her.

“You’re abandoning me,” she whispers. “And your baby. On a street corner. I do need you, Ford. We do.”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

Because she’s right, and we both know it.

Instead, I turn and walk away, each step feeling like it’s tearing something vital out of my chest.

I tell myself this is what protection looks like. That distance is safety. That walking away is what men like me are supposed to do.

But as the traffic swells around me, all I can hear is her voice. Soft, stunned, asking me not to disappear.

And the echo of my own footsteps, walking away from the best thing I’ve ever had, knowing I’ll never outrun the sound.