Page 6 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

Gemma

Foundation goes on first, blended until my skin looks airbrushed. Concealer next—under the eyes, around the nose, anywhere imperfection might dare to show. I’ve been doing this routine for so long I could do it in my sleep.

I glance toward the bed where Ford is still sleeping, then back to the mirror. I need to finish before he wakes up.

I smooth the silk camisole over my curves and adjust the matching shorts. It took years to love the soft fullness of my hips and breasts, to see beauty instead of flaws.

Thanks for nothing, Mom.

But I do love how I look in this. Funny how I can love my body and still feel unready to be seen by Ford without a full face of makeup.

I should probably get dressed before he wakes up. The truth is, I barely slept. Every time Ford shifted beside me, I was wired into his presence. Of how solid and warm he felt just inches away. Of how badly I wanted to close that distance.

What’s wrong with me?

Now, in the morning light, I need protection. The kind that comes from immaculate eyeliner and clothes that fit just right.

I change into dark jeans and a soft cream-colored blouse, then finish up and head to the kitchen, determined to have everything perfect before he wakes. The coffee’s brewing, the kitchen spotless, my lipstick untouched. And still I catch myself smoothing my hair in the window reflection.

He’s not even in the room, Gemma.

Twenty minutes later, Ford emerges from the bedroom in rumpled clothes and messy hair, looking devastatingly attractive in that effortless way men have mastered.

His eyes find mine immediately, and there’s a beat of recognition. Sleeping in the same bed was more intense than either of us expected, but we’re both pretending it wasn’t.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep, and something in his tone makes my pulse skip.

“Coffee’s ready.” I gesture to the steaming mug on the counter. “Black, like your soul.”

He almost smiles at that. “Thanks.”

I’m tuned in to his every movement, every gesture. This domestic dance we’re doing feels both natural and terrifying. Like this is more than just protection detail, and we both know it.

I turn to grab plates from the cabinet, but my arm catches the handle of his mug, sending it flying. It doesn’t break—thank God—but coffee splashes everywhere, dark liquid spreading across the counter and dripping onto the floor.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” I immediately drop to my knees to clean it up. “I’m such a mess, I should have been more careful?—”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m ? —

It’s my mother’s voice I hear first. No one wants to deal with your mess, Gemma.

But I also hear years of being praised for staying pleasant, polished, easy. The perfect girl. The perfect date. Never the woman on her knees, panicking over a spilled mug.

“It’s just a mug,” Ford says, grabbing paper towels.

I’m still on the floor, frantically wiping at the spill. “I know you like things orderly—I can make you a fresh cup, I promise I’ll be more careful?—”

“Gemma.” Ford crouches down beside me, his hands stilling mine. “You don’t have to apologize for being human.”

His words are like a window opening in a room I forgot existed.

I’ve never heard that from a man before. In my experience, men want the polished version, the one who never needs anything, never causes problems, never makes mistakes. The kindness in his voice—without expectation, without agenda—hits me in a place I don’t have defenses for.

“I just...” I start, then stop. What am I supposed to say? I’ve spent my entire life performing perfect because imperfect girls get left behind.

His thumb brushes across my knuckles, and I realize my hands are shaking.

“It’s coffee, not blood,” he says. “And even if it was blood, it would still just be a mess. Fixable.”

I look up at him, and the softness in his expression undoes something in me. “You really don’t mind?”

“I really don’t mind.”

We clean up the rest of the coffee in comfortable silence, and I make him a fresh cup without commentary. But something’s shifted. There’s a crack in my armor now, and I’m not sure if I want to seal it up or let it widen.

We spend the morning in careful orbit around each other. Ford works on his laptop at the kitchen counter while I clean up from breakfast, then flip through a magazine I’m not really reading. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s loaded. Full of things we’re not saying.

Later that afternoon, I’m curled up on the couch with a book when the motion sensor alert starts shrieking. The sound cuts through the quiet like a knife, and my blood instantly turns to ice.

Before I can process what’s happening, Ford’s already moving.

He grabs his gun from wherever he keeps it and rushes toward the surveillance room.

“Stay here,” he says over his shoulder, voice clipped and professional. “Don’t move until I say so.”

He disappears, and I hear him in the surveillance room, probably checking the cameras. Then the back door opens and closes, and suddenly the safehouse is silent except for my racing heart.

He’s outside. Checking the perimeter. And I’m alone.

What if it’s Tim? What if he found us?

Minutes tick by. Five. Ten. Where is he? My hands shake as I pull my knees to my chest, listening for any sound—footsteps, voices, anything. Every creak of the building makes me flinch. Every shadow seems to hide a threat.

What if something happened to Ford? What if Tim has a gun?

The silence presses against my eardrums, thick and wrong. Panic starts to claw at my throat.

When the back door finally opens again, I’m off the couch before I can think. Ford appears in the doorway, and the relief nearly knocks me over.

“Clear,” he says, and I’m already moving toward him.

I reach for him without thinking, needing something solid to anchor me.

He pulls me in without hesitation, arms locking tight around me like he’s physically shielding me from a threat that’s already gone. His hand cradles the back of my head, grounding, possessive. “You’re alright,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

I should step back. I should thank him and create some appropriate distance. Instead, I melt into him, letting myself have this moment of being held, protected, cared for. His chest is solid against my cheek, his arms strong enough to make the whole world feel safer.

“Just a neighbor’s cat.” His voice is calm, steady. “No need to worry.”

I breathe in his scent and feel my pulse start to slow for the first time since the alarm sounded.

That’s when I feel it. His pulse, hammering beneath the calm exterior. His body, solid but strung tight like a wire about to snap.

He seems calm. Controlled. But under my cheek, his heart is racing. He’s not as unaffected as he looks.

“You okay?” he asks, and something in his voice brushes against the part of me that’s still raw.

I nod against his shirt, but neither of us moves away. We stand there in the middle of the living room, holding each other like we’re the only solid things in an unstable world.

Later, I’m curled up on the couch with my sketchbook, trying to lose myself in drawing.

It’s something I do when I’m anxious - letting my hands move across the paper while my mind settles.

I’m working on a new lingerie design, something with delicate lace details, when Ford settles into the armchair across from me with his laptop.

The quiet rhythm of his typing fills the silence.

His phone buzzes occasionally and he checks it with the same focused attention he gives everything else.

He could easily do this work from the other room, but he’s here. Staying close. Making sure I’m not alone with my thoughts after the scare.

I don’t comment on it, but something warm ripples through me. He’s protecting me in ways that have nothing to do with guns or alarms. And it hits me. This might be the first time I’ve felt safe in someone’s presence.

The rest of the afternoon passes quietly.

We eat a simple dinner together, make small talk about nothing important, both of us sticking to safe topics.

But I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking, and every time our hands accidentally brush reaching for the salt or clearing plates, the air seems to thicken.

That night, I realize after my shower that I left my makeup bag in the bedroom. I assume Ford is still in the surveillance room doing his nightly security check, so I slip out of the bathroom in my pajamas, face clean and bare, hair damp and naturally curly.

I’m halfway to the dresser when I realize Ford is sitting on the edge of the bed, and we both freeze.

Panic flickers through me—the automatic response of someone caught unguarded. My mother’s voice echoes in my head: No one wants to see the messy parts, Gemma. I feel completely exposed, bare-faced, hair a disaster.

I start to turn back toward the bathroom, one hand automatically going to smooth my hair, but Ford’s voice stops me.

“I didn’t know your hair was curly.”

His voice is rougher than usual, and I freeze, acutely aware of how different I must look. No sleek styling, no makeup, just... me.

“It’s a mess when it’s wet, I usually?—”

“Don’t.” He stands, moving closer. “You look good like this. Real.”

The word flows through me—slowly, like honey. No one had ever called me that without meaning ‘too much.’ Too dramatic, too intense, too complicated. But when he says it, it feels like a compliment.

My throat tightens, and I don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to retreat, to rebuild my armor, but something in his expression keeps me frozen in place.

When he reaches out to touch a damp curl, I don’t pull away. His fingers are gentle, almost reverent, as he tucks it behind my ear. The simple touch sends electricity through my entire body.

His hand lingers near my face, and neither of us moves.

The air between us crackles with tension. His eyes drop to my lips, then back up, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. Desire and discipline locked in a quiet standoff.

But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he steps back, giving me space I don’t want.

“We should get some sleep.” It sounds like it costs him to say it.

Right. Sleep. With this electricity sparking between us.

I retreat to the bathroom to brush my teeth and try to calm my racing pulse. When I emerge, Ford is waiting his turn, and we do an awkward little dance around each other in the small space.

A few minutes later, we’re both in bed. I notice he’s kept his t-shirt and shorts on—a careful distance even in sleep. We lie in the dark, supposedly asleep but both aware the other is awake. Every inch of space between us hums with tension.

His breathing is slow, even. But I’m wide awake, replaying the way he said I looked real. Not perfect. Not polished. Just... me. And he didn’t flinch.

I shift toward him, drawn like gravity. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. Close enough that if he wanted to reach for me, he could.

Ford’s breathing changes, becomes more ragged. I can feel him fighting the same pull I am.

“Gemma.” His voice is a warning and a question all at once.

“I know,” I whisper back. But I don’t move away.

The tension becomes unbearable. Ford turns toward me, and suddenly we’re face-to-face in the dark, the conflict clear in his eyes even without much light.

“This isn’t smart,” he murmurs, but his hand comes up to brush another strand of hair from my face. His touch lingers, thumb tracing my cheekbone.

“I know,” I whisper back, but I lean into his touch anyway.

I shift even closer in the dark. Not touching, just closer. Close enough that if either of us moved just a little more...

If he kisses me, I’ll break every rule I’ve ever made for myself.

And I’m starting to think I want to.