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

Ford

The safehouse sits between two identical brownstones on a tree-lined Brooklyn street.

Everything looks exactly as it should: unremarkable, secure, quiet.

“So this is where we’re hiding out?” Gemma asks as I unlock the front door, her voice steady despite everything that’s happened in the last few hours.

“Temporarily.” I step inside first, immediately scanning the entry before stepping aside to let her enter.

This is what my company calls a bolt hole. A place we own in Carroll Gardens where clients can lay low when things get too dangerous and they need round-the-clock supervision.

Inside, I walk her through the security protocols with the same systematic approach I use for every client. Motion sensors at all entry points, backup communications system, camera feeds covering every angle of approach.

“How long will we need to stay here?” she asks, running her fingers along the wall-mounted control panel. I notice she touches things when she’s thinking—light, exploratory gestures like she’s reading the space through her fingertips.

I notice a lot about her, more than I probably should.

“Until we locate Roberts or neutralize the threat.”

She nods, processing, and I give her the tour. Bedroom for her, surveillance room with a fold-out couch for me, shared bathroom, open living area that flows into a compact kitchen. It’s all sterile and functional, exactly what it was built for.

When Gemma opens the refrigerator, she stares at the contents for a long moment: three protein shakes, bottled water, and a lone jar of mustard. She closes the door with a decisive click.

“Well, this is tragic,” she says, already pulling out her phone. Her fingers fly over the screen. “I can’t survive on protein shakes alone for however long this takes.”

She’s building a grocery list before I can object, peppering me with rapid-fire questions.

Whether I cook? Not if I can avoid it.

Meal preferences? Anything edible.

Opinions about bread? I don’t have any.

“Secret addiction to fancy cheese?” she asks, thumb poised over her phone.

“Nothing secret about it.”

She looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise, then grins and adds something to her list. “Good to know.”

I don’t usually make jokes with clients. Hell, I don’t usually make jokes at all. But something about her easy confidence makes me want to match it.

The cognitive dissonance hits me hard. Ten minutes ago I was explaining escape routes and secure perimeters. Now she’s debating the merits of sourdough versus whole grain like we’re planning a dinner party instead of hiding from a stalker.

“I’ll order delivery,” she says, scrolling through options. “Should be here within an hour.”

“Fine. I’ll be in the surveillance room.”

A few hours later, I’m monitoring the perimeter cameras when movement on the internal feeds keeps pulling my attention back to the kitchen.

Gemma has changed into soft black leggings and an oversized cream sweater that looks cashmere-soft and expensive. Her hair is still perfectly styled, but she’s barefoot now, padding around the kitchen with unconscious grace as she unpacks groceries.

She’s humming while she works, something low and bluesy that fits the smoky quality of her voice.

When she reaches up to put something in the high cabinet, the sweater rides up, revealing a tantalizing strip of pale skin above her waistband.

There’s a constellation of small freckles scattered across her lower back, and I catch myself wondering if they extend elsewhere.

Professional distance, Ford.

She arranges fresh flowers— where the hell did she get flowers? —in a water glass and wipes down already-clean counters. Like she can’t help but improve any space she occupies.

A few minutes later, she’s settled at the kitchen island painting her nails a deep red when her phone buzzes. She answers it, phone wedged between her shoulder and ear while she continues with the nail polish.

“No, I’m fine, just lying low for a few days,” she says into the phone, then pauses to blow on her nails. “Yes, I know it’s sudden... No, I can’t really explain right now...”

I shouldn’t be listening. Should give her privacy. But her voice carries, and I find myself paying attention to the cadence of her words, the way her tone shifts when she’s being evasive.

When she hangs up, she sets the phone aside and continues with her nails, that soft humming resuming. She seems at ease, as if being in a safehouse with a man she barely knows is just another Tuesday.

Twenty minutes later, she appears in the surveillance room doorway holding a steaming mug. The room suddenly feels much smaller.

“I made coffee,” she says, setting it on my desk. “I’m guessing you’re a black coffee kind of guy. You have that whole ‘efficiency over comfort’ vibe going on.”

She’s close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something clean and floral that somehow manages to be both innocent and utterly distracting.

When she sets the mug down, our fingers brush for a split second.

The contact is electric, unexpected, and I catch the slight pause in her movement that tells me she felt it too.

“Good guess,” I manage, wrapping my hands around the mug to give them something to do.

“I’m very observant,” she says, a small smile playing at her lips. “I figured you’d need the caffeine if you’re planning to stay up all night watching those monitors.”

She glances at the bank of screens showing different angles of the property. “Anything happening?”

“Nothing. Which is perfect.”

“You really are an antisocial type, aren’t you?”

“I prefer things predictable. It keeps people alive.”

“Good thing I’m in safe hands then.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “I should let you work.”

I try to focus on the screens. Perimeter clear. Street quiet. No movement except for a neighbor walking their dog past the house.

My phone buzzes with a text from my business partner, JJ: Surveillance outside Gemma’s place just spotted Roberts. He was near the callbox like he was working up to something. One of our guys came around the corner and spooked him. He bailed before we could intercept.

I set the phone down and run a hand through my hair.

He wasn’t just watching this time. He was trying to get inside.

This is exactly how situations spiral: obsession that crosses a line, a guy too delusional to recognize boundaries until it’s too late.

I’ve seen how these cases go. By the time law enforcement takes stalking seriously, it’s usually because someone’s already been hurt.

I head to the living room to find Gemma.

She’s curled up on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees and a bowl of red grapes in her hand, looking like she’s settled in for the evening.

Her legs are tucked under her, and she’s wearing reading glasses that she quickly removes the moment she notices me watching.

“Roberts was spotted outside your apartment,” I tell her, settling into the chair across from her. “He was trying to get inside.”

Her hand pauses halfway to her mouth, a grape suspended between her fingers. For a moment, something flickers across her face. Not fear, exactly, but a tightening around her eyes that suggests the gravity of the situation isn’t lost on her.

“Did he get in?”

“No. One of our guys spooked him before he could do anything. He ran.”

She sets the bowl aside slowly, tension tightening her jaw. “Okay,” she says finally, voice a little too flat.

“You’re safe here,” I reassure her, keeping my voice steady. “We’ll find him.”

She nods once, then shifts, pulling herself back into motion.

“Good thing I stocked up on groceries,” she says with a wry edge.

She exhales, then smooths her hands down her sweater. When she looks at me again, there’s a flicker of determination behind the composure.

“Well. I need something to do with my hands, or I’ll start stress-cleaning the grout.” She moves to close her laptop and rises from the couch. When she stretches, her sweater pulls tight across her chest, and I drag my gaze to the wall behind her instead.

“I got ingredients for pasta,” she says. “Nothing elaborate, but better than whatever frozen nightmare you probably had planned.”

“You don’t need to cook. We can get takeout?—”

“I know I don’t need to.” She gives me a look that’s part amusement, part challenge. “I want to. There’s a difference.”

She heads toward the kitchen. “Besides,” she adds, “I’m a stress cook. Keeping my hands busy keeps my mind quiet.”

“Fine.” I end up at the kitchen island, ostensibly reviewing case files on my laptop but mostly watching her move.

She’s graceful, chopping garlic, reaching for spices, humming under her breath. I’m so caught up in it that I don’t notice her glance back until it’s too late. Our eyes meet.

She doesn’t say anything—just lifts one perfectly arched eyebrow, like she’s clocked me and is letting it slide.

I look back at the screen, pretending to scroll.

“Case files that compelling?” she asks lightly, not even turning around.

“Riveting,” I say, and sip my drink like it can cover the heat rising in my neck.

She glances over with a wry smile. “Do you ever get bored?”

“I’m paid very well to not be bored.”

“Right. Of course.” She stirs the garlic, and the sizzling fills the brief silence. “What’s the most interesting case you’ve worked? Strangest client, I guess?”

I think about it while she cooks. “There was a tech billionaire with an emotional support peacock.”

She blinks. “You’re lying.”

“Wish I was.”

Her laugh softens something in my chest.

“What about you?” I ask. “I assume your work attracts some interesting personalities too.”

She pauses in her chopping, glancing up with a raised eyebrow.

“Interesting is one way to put it. There was this CEO who booked me for dinner at Daniel, which is about as fancy as it gets. I’m expecting the usual: show me off to impress business contacts, stroke his ego, maybe end up in his penthouse afterward. ”