Page 18 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)
Ford
Eighteen Months Later…
The apartment looks like a rainbow exploded.
Pastel balloons hang from every available surface, ribbons drifting low. There’s frosting smeared on the coffee table, wrapping paper scattered across the hardwood floor, and a high chair pushed against the kitchen island.
And in the center of it all, my one-year-old daughter, Ruby, sits in her frilly pink dress, methodically destroying a piece of birthday cake with the focused determination of a demolition expert.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her work. She’s got Gemma’s copper hair, though it’s still baby-fine and sticking up at odd angles. Her gray eyes—all mine—are completely focused on the important task of getting as much frosting on her face as humanly possible.
A year and a half ago, I was convinced I was too broken for this. Too damaged. Too dangerous.
Now Ruby squeals and claps her frosting-covered hands, sending cake flying. I can’t stop grinning like an idiot.
“Ford, you’re supposed to be helping with the tunnel, not standing there looking sentimental,” Rae calls from the living room, where she’s crouched next to what’s supposed to be a collapsible play tunnel but looks more like abstract art.
I walk over, dropping to my knees in the middle of a twisted mess of colorful fabric and plastic poles.
Rae made me work for it. She was protective of Gemma, rightfully so. Took months for her to warm up, even after I proposed and we had our small ceremony in Central Park. But now she gives me hell like I’m her annoying little brother.
“This thing came with instructions, right?”
“Allegedly.” Rae holds up a piece of paper covered in wordless diagrams. “But I think they were written by someone who’s never actually tried to assemble one of these things.”
JJ’s wife Keisha appears with her camera, snapping photos of our struggle. “This is going in the album as ‘The Great Tunnel Disaster of 2026.’”
“At least make sure you get my good side,” I mutter, trying to figure out which end is supposed to connect to what.
Victoria glides over with her usual elegance, holding a glass of wine and watching our architectural failures with amusement.
“Perhaps you should stick to what you’re good at, Ford,” she says, and even her posh accent doesn’t soften the burn. “How is the business going, by the way? We miss your skills since you stepped back from fieldwork.”
“Thanks. It’s been good focusing on the business side,” I say, finally getting two pieces of the tunnel to connect.
“He’s being modest,” JJ jumps in from across the room, grinning. “Ford’s tripled our client base in the last year. We just opened a second office in DC.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “It’s not that impressive.”
“Not impressive?” JJ laughs. “You landed three Fortune 500 contracts in six months. Turns out my partner’s got a head for business strategy. Who knew?”
“I always suspected you were wasted in the field,” Victoria says with approval. “Much better suited to running an empire than dodging bullets.”
Keisha drops a paper crown on my head before I can respond. It’s bright yellow with “Birthday Girl’s Daddy” written in glittery pink letters. I catch JJ trying not to laugh.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He grins. “But if someone had told me two years ago that Ford Lawson would be sitting on the floor wearing a tiara and losing a fight with a children’s toy, I would’ve checked them into a psychiatric facility.”
I adjust the crown so it’s not sliding over my eyes. “It’s not a tiara.”
“Right. My mistake.”
From the kitchen, Ruby lets out a shriek of pure joy, followed by what sounds like a plate hitting the floor. We all turn to look, and she’s holding up both hands, fingers spread wide, cake dripping from every digit like she’s showing off her latest masterpiece.
“I think she’s done,” Gemma says, appearing from the kitchen with a towel. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and there’s a smear of frosting on her cheek. She looks beautiful and slightly frazzled and completely in her element.
“Done with it, or declared war on it?” JJ asks, joining our little group.
“Both,” Gemma laughs, wiping Ruby’s hands with the patience of someone who’s learned that resistance is futile when it comes to baby chaos.
Keisha settles into one of the chairs with her own piece of cake. “How’s your studio going, Gemma? JJ said you hired more people?”
I feel my chest swell with pride, and I jump in before Gemma can even answer. “She just brought on her fourth employee,” I say, unable to keep the satisfaction out of my voice. “Now a boutique chain wants to carry her entire spring line.”
“Plus some influencer posted about her on Instagram and now she can’t keep up with demand,” Rae adds. “Our girl’s gone legit.”
“You should see her new studio space in Queens,” I add, proud as hell. “It’s like a textile wonderland in there.”
Ruby bangs her sippy cup against the high chair tray, demanding attention, and Gemma automatically moves to refill it.
I watch her move around the kitchen with easy confidence, the soft curves of her hips swaying as she navigates our beautiful chaos, and I’m reminded all over again how lucky I am that this gorgeous woman chose me.
JJ asked me once if it ever bothered me—being with someone older. If I ever thought I’d wake up one day and want someone closer to my age.
I think about that sometimes, and it always makes me smile.
Gemma’s not just older. She’s lived more. She’s built herself from scratch more times than most people even try. She’s strong in ways that don’t always show. And yeah, sometimes she still thinks she has to keep it all together.
But I see her. And that’s who I want. That’s who I’ll always want.
She’s softness I didn’t know I needed. The kind that doesn’t flinch at the dark corners, just…stays. Until they’re not so dark anymore.
Victoria moves closer to the high chair, and Ruby immediately reaches for her. Instead of stepping back, Victoria leans down and lets Ruby pat her cheek.
“There’s my birthday girl,” Victoria coos, and my chest squeezes at the sight of this formidable woman turning to absolute mush for my daughter.
Ruby starts getting fussy, rubbing her eyes, and I move without thinking. “Come here, baby girl.”
I lift her out of the high chair, and she immediately snuggles into my chest. I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in that perfect baby smell that’s somehow still there under all the cake.
“You’re getting good at that,” JJ observes, grinning at me from across the room. “Remember when you were afraid to hold her?”
“I wasn’t afraid,” I protest. “I was being cautious.”
“You asked me to Google ‘how to hold a baby without breaking it,’” Gemma adds helpfully.
“That was research.”
Gemma moves to stand beside me, her arm sliding around my waist as she leans over to press a kiss against Ruby’s cheek. Her touch lands right over the scars on my back, and instead of the old familiar tightness, I feel something else. Acceptance. Peace.
I’m still going to therapy every other week. Still showing up to the veteran support group on Thursday nights. Some days the guilt creeps back in, and some nights I still wake up thinking about Kandahar. But I’ve learned to lean on the people around me instead of carrying it all alone.
Ruby yawns against my shoulder, and I feel her little body start to relax as the sugar crash hits.
She snuggles into my neck and sighs contentedly, her tiny breath warm against my skin.
Around us, our friends continue talking and laughing, but my focus narrows to this small, perfect weight in my arms.
Gemma looks up at me, and we share one of those wordless conversations that married couples perfect.
“I love you,” she mouths silently, and I mouth it back, both of us grinning like idiots.
The look that says we did this . We built this life from nothing but hope and stubbornness and the willingness to stay.
A year and a half ago, I walked away from her on a street corner in Brooklyn because I was terrified I’d fail to protect her and our baby the way I failed Mason. I thought walking away was the only way to keep them safe.
I was wrong about everything.
This life isn’t perfect. It’s messy and loud and sometimes Ruby cries at three in the morning and sometimes I wake up from nightmares that leave me shaking. But it’s real. It’s ours. And it’s exactly what I never knew I wanted.
Ruby’s breathing evens out against my chest, and I realize she’s fallen asleep in my arms. I tighten my arms around her, feeling the solid weight of her trust.
I spent so many years thinking love was something that happened to other people. People who deserved it. People who weren’t carrying around pieces of shrapnel in their hearts.
But love isn’t about deserving. It’s about choosing to stay, even when staying feels impossible.
It’s letting someone see the broken parts and trusting them not to cut themselves on the sharp edges.
It’s building something beautiful from the wreckage and calling it home.
THE END
***
I hope you enjoyed Gemma and Ford’s story!
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