Page 5 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

She adds tomatoes to the pan, and the smell starts filling the kitchen.

“Instead, he spent two hours explaining his collection of vintage doorknobs with the kind of passion most people reserve for their children. Two hours, Ford. About doorknobs. I learned more about brass patina than I ever wanted to know.”

The way she says my name does something to my pulse, and I have to break eye contact.

“You wouldn’t believe some of the characters I end up with,” She shakes her head. “I’ve got enough material to write a novel.”

Something ugly slithers in my chest at the thought of her with clients.

I know I’m the one who asked about her work, but hearing about it makes me feel something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I write it off as protective instinct, but the edge feels personal in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

She reaches up to the high cabinet for olive oil, and I watch her stretch toward the shelf, noting the way her leggings hug her generous curves. When she wobbles slightly, I cross the kitchen in two strides and steady her with my hands at her waist.

Suddenly we’re sharing the same small space, her back pressed against my chest. She’s warmer than I expected, softer, and for a moment neither of us moves. She tilts her head to look up at me, and I can see the gold flecks in her green eyes, count the individual lashes that frame them.

This close, I can see things her makeup doesn’t quite hide. The faint line of a scar through her left eyebrow. The tiny mole just below her right ear that’s probably only visible when her hair is pulled back.

“Thanks,” she says softly, but she doesn’t immediately move away.

I should step back. Put professional distance between us. But I don’t want to.

The timer for the pasta chooses that moment to go off, breaking the spell.

“Saved by the bell,” she murmurs, but there’s amusement in her voice rather than embarrassment.

She moves away to drain the pasta, and I retreat to the other side of the island. But I can still feel the warmth of her skin under my hands, still smell that floral scent that seems to follow her everywhere.

We eat at the small table, and the conversation flows easier than I expected. She tells me about growing up, how she learned to cook from her mother, who thought it was an essential skill for a proper young woman to master.

I find myself sharing stories about private security work that I usually keep to myself. Nothing confidential, just the absurd moments that happen when you’re protecting people with more money than sense.

When she laughs at my story about a client who wanted me to taste-test all his food because he was convinced his business partner was trying to poison him, she really laughs—and snorts slightly before immediately clapping a hand over her mouth, mortified. “Oh god, I’m sorry, that was?—”

“Don’t.” My voice comes out soft. “I like it.”

Something shifts in her expression, like she’s not sure what to do with that level of honesty. But she lowers her hand, and when she smiles this time, it’s different. Less careful.

“What about you?” she asks, twirling pasta around her fork. “How does someone end up in private security? Military?”

“Army. Rangers,” I say. “Did my time, got out, started the company.”

She waits, clearly expecting more. When I don’t elaborate, she tilts her head, and I notice the way her earrings catch the light when she moves.

“That’s it? No dramatic origin story?”

“Not much to tell.”

But there is, and the familiar tightness is building in my chest. Mason’s voice on the radio. The smell of burning fuel. The echo of choices that can’t be undone.

“Everyone has a story.” Something in her voice suggests she knows about carrying weight you don’t want to share.

I take a sip of water, buying time. “What about you? How does someone end up working for Elite Companions?”

She lets me change the subject, but there’s understanding in her eyes that tells me she’s filed away my deflection for later consideration.

“Practical decision,” she says, meeting my gaze directly. “I needed money fast, I had the right assets, and I’m good at reading people. Victoria runs a clean operation, the clients are vetted, and the pay is excellent.”

“No judgment about the work?”

“From other people? All the time. From myself?” She shrugs. “I provide a service. Companionship, conversation, sometimes intimacy. All consensual, all professional. The only people who should have opinions about my job are me and my clients.”

Her directness is refreshing. No shame, no defensiveness, just matter-of-fact acceptance of her choices.

When we’re finished eating, she reaches for my plate automatically. “I should clean up?—”

“Leave it.” The words come out more firmly than I intended.

She pauses, studying my face. “It’s not a big deal?—”

“I know.” Our eyes meet and hold. “But you don’t have to.”

Something shifts in her expression—genuine surprise. Like maybe she’s not used to people telling her she doesn’t need to be useful.

“Old habits,” she says eventually, but she settles back in her chair as I start washing dishes at the sink.

After dinner, I head to the surveillance room to set up the fold-out couch for the night. The moment I try to unfold it, though, the mechanism snaps with a sharp crack, one side collapsing hard. The frame is bent, cushions askew.

Completely unusable.

“Shit,” I mutter, examining the broken hardware. The support bracket has snapped, and there’s no fixing it without replacement parts.

I’m running through alternative sleeping arrangements when Gemma appears in the doorway. She’s changed into silk pajamas—shorts and a matching camisole in deep blue that makes her skin look luminous. Her makeup is still perfectly applied, not a smudge in sight.

“What happened to the couch?” she asks, taking in my expression and the twisted furniture.

“It’s not usable. I’ll take the love seat in the living room.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That thing is barely long enough for me, and you’re a giant.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “There’s a queen bed in the guest room, and you’re welcome to share with me.”

The word share makes my pulse kick up, but I push the reaction down.

“The love seat is fine.”

“Ford.” She gives me a look that suggests she thinks I’m being deliberately obtuse. “We’re both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”

She’s right, of course. It’s the practical solution. But the idea of lying next to her all night, listening to her breathe, feeling the warmth radiating from her side of the bed…

That feels like its own kind of danger.

“Professional boundaries,” I say weakly.

“Are maintained by professional people,” she counters. “Which I think we both are.”

She has a point. And the alternative is spending the night on a love seat that’s at least a foot too short, which won’t exactly improve my alertness tomorrow.

“Fine,” I say. “But I sleep on top of the covers.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable.”

We settle on opposite sides of the queen bed, backs carefully turned to each other.

I’m lying on top of the comforter in my clothes, while she’s under the covers in those distracting pajamas. There’s probably two feet between us, but it feels like inches.

Tension coils in the dark, stretched tight between us. I’m highly attuned to every small sound she makes—the rustle of silk against sheets, the soft sigh as she settles into her pillow, the almost inaudible hum she makes when she’s getting comfortable.

“Thanks,” she says quietly into the darkness. “For all of this. I know it’s not exactly standard bodyguard duty, playing house with a client.”

“It’s not playing house.”

“No?” Her voice goes soft, almost curious.

I don’t answer, because I don’t have words for whatever this is becoming. Professional distance is supposed to be my specialty, but every interaction with her seems to erode another layer of the walls I’ve built.

I lie there listening to her breathing even out, feeling the warmth radiating from her side of the bed, and I realize the real danger isn’t Tim Roberts.

It’s how much I’m starting to care about the woman lying next to me. And when you care, the stakes get higher. When you care, every decision matters more. When you care, failure isn’t just professional—it’s personal.

And I can’t afford to fail her the way I failed them.