Page 8 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)
Gemma
I’ve been awake for three hours sketching, moving from bras to camisoles to corsets, and none of the designs are working the way I want them to.
Which is fitting, because nothing’s been working the way I want it to since Ford and I crossed that line four days ago.
My pencil moves across the page in frustrated strokes as I try to get the proportions right on what should be a simple bustier design.
This started years ago because I was sick of lingerie that either cut off circulation or offered zero support—expensive pieces that looked gorgeous on mannequins but felt like medieval torture devices on actual women with real bodies.
Somewhere along the way, sketching solutions turned into something that felt like mine. Something I could control.
Right now, though, even my own hobby is betraying me.
Ford appears in the kitchen doorway, moving with his usual silent efficiency. He’s already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted gray Henley that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders.
His hair is slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it, and I make myself look back at my sketch before I start thinking about what it would feel like to do the same.
He looks like he got maybe three hours of sleep. Another night spent avoiding our shared bed until I was out cold.
We navigate around each other in the small kitchen with careful politeness, like strangers sharing a hotel breakfast buffet instead of two people who’ve seen each other naked.
He makes coffee and toast. I pretend to be absorbed in my sketch.
It’s a routine we’ve fallen into over the last few days, and it’s starting to wear me down.
From the corner of my eye, I see him glance at my sketchbook. The drawing is half-finished, probably looks like random curves and measurements to him. He doesn’t ask. Just pours his coffee and grabs bread from the counter.
The silence eats at me. Every clink of ceramic, every soft hiss of the machine, grates against my nerves. I grip my pencil tighter and stare at the mess of lines in front of me.
I’ve always been good at reading rooms, at making myself easy to be around. It’s a survival skill I perfected long before I started working for Elite Companions. Smile, be agreeable, don’t make waves. Keep everyone comfortable.
But this polite distance? After that night ? I’ve never had to navigate a morning after, let alone four of them. With clients, they leave or I do.
But Ford isn’t a client, and neither of us is going anywhere.
Ford is methodically buttering his toast, putting on such a performance of normalcy that I want to scream. Part of me wants to just ask him what we’re doing here, why he pulled away like I’d burned him. The other part doesn’t want to be the one who makes this more complicated than it already is.
I close the sketchbook with more force than necessary and start digging through my purse for my phone. Maybe my best friend Rae texted. Maybe Victoria has an update about Tim. Maybe?—
My fingers close around something small and cylindrical, and I pull out the travel-sized pepper spray I’d forgotten was in there. Pink and compact, it looks more like expensive lip gloss than a weapon.
An idea hits me.
If I can’t get him to talk to me as Ford-the-man-I-slept-with, maybe I can get him to engage as Ford-the-bodyguard. Not exactly mature, but I’m desperate to break this suffocating politeness between us.
“Ford?” I hold up the pepper spray, twirling it between my fingers like it’s a party favor. “Think you could show me how to use this? Just in case?”
He looks up from his breakfast, gray eyes assessing. For a second, I think he might brush me off with some comment about it being unnecessary. But then he nods once, setting down his coffee.
“Basic self-defense.” He’s already shifting into what I’m starting to recognize as his professional mode. “Good idea.”
It’s more conversation than we’ve had in four days. I’ll take it.
We move to the living room, and Ford positions himself a few feet away from me. “First rule: pepper spray is only effective if you can deploy it quickly and accurately. Most people panic and either miss completely or spray themselves.”
I try to focus on his words, but mostly I’m watching the way he moves. There’s something mesmerizing about Ford when he slips into command mode. The quiet authority, the way he owns the space around him. Even explaining something as simple as pepper spray, he radiates competence.
“Show me your grip.”
I hold up the canister, probably wrong, and he steps closer to adjust my hand position.
“Thumb on top, fingers wrapped around the base. And see this?” He points to a small plastic flip tab.
“Safety mechanism. Flick it up with your thumb before you spray. Most people forget that step when they panic.”
His fingers brush mine as he corrects my hold, and I swear the temperature in the room jumps ten degrees.
“Like this?” I’m trying for breezy and probably landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“Better. Now, your stance.” He demonstrates, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced. “You want to be stable. If someone rushes you after you spray them, you need to be ready to move.”
I mirror his position, keenly aware of how close we’re standing. Close enough to catch the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“Good.” There’s something in his voice that makes me think he’s as affected by our proximity as I am. “Aim for the face, but if you miss, any contact with exposed skin on the head or neck area can help.”
I nod like I’m absorbing this crucial information, but honestly, all I can think about is the way his voice drops when he’s explaining something. How his entire focus narrows to whatever task is in front of him.
“Want to try a practice run?”
“Sure. Though fair warning, my aim is questionable at best. I once threw a high heel at an ex and hit his roommate instead.”
Ford’s mouth quirks up—barely there, but I catch it. “We won’t actually be spraying anything. Just practicing.”
He takes a step back, his expression shifting into something more serious. “I’m going to approach you like an attacker would. Aggressive, trying to corner you. Your job is to create distance, practice your grip, and be ready to deploy if needed. Safety stays on for this one.”
I know this is just a demonstration, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes my pulse spike.
“Ready?”
I nod, gripping the pepper spray.
He advances toward me, not fast but with clear purpose, and my instincts kick in. I back up, but the living room isn’t exactly spacious. Within seconds, my shoulders hit the wall.
Ford stops inches from me, heat rolling off his body in waves. “In a real situation, this is when you’d deploy. But you’re trapped now. Cornered.”
Neither of us moves to step away. His hand comes up to cover mine on the pepper spray, and we’re close enough that I can see the pulse beating at the base of his throat.
The space between us feels heavy with possibility. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, and I watch his jaw tighten.
“I’m clearly not very good at this,” I say with a rueful laugh.
His grip on my wrist tightens almost imperceptibly. “It takes practice. We can work on it.”
“I’m not too worried.” I give him a slight smile, trying to lighten the moment. “If we ever left the house, you’d be with me to make up for my terrible aim and keep me safe, right?”
Something dark flickers across his face, and the warmth between us evaporates in an instant.
“That’s not a guarantee.” His voice is so quiet I almost miss it.
The words hit me like cold water. There’s something raw in his tone, something that speaks to a pain I don’t understand but can feel radiating off him in waves.
“What do you mean?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“You can be standing right next to someone and still not be able to stop them from bleeding out.”
The confession hangs between us, heavy with meaning I’m only beginning to grasp. Whatever happened, whoever he lost, it’s still bleeding inside him. I can feel the tension radiating from his body, see the way his shoulders have drawn tight.
The stillness that follows doesn’t need filling. It’s the kind of quiet that comes after someone shares a piece of their soul.
“You’re here now.” My voice is steady despite the way my heart is racing.
He starts to turn away—that automatic retreat I’ve watched him do a dozen times over the past few days. But this time, something stops him. Maybe it’s the way I’m looking at him, or maybe he’s just tired of running from whatever this is between us.
He turns back, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch.
The kiss, when it comes, is nothing like the desperate collision from four nights ago.
This is deliberate. Slow. Ford’s free hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
He’s not running this time. He’s staying, choosing this moment, choosing me.
He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the taste, like he’s decided to stop fighting whatever he’s been feeling and surrender to it. There’s something almost reverent about the way his mouth moves against mine, like this moment matters in a way neither of us expected.
His body is solid against mine, all heat and tension and restraint. I feel the stutter of his breath against my cheek as my hands find his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft cotton. He makes a sound low in his throat—surprise or pleasure or relief, I can’t tell—and deepens the kiss.
This isn’t about control or games or the charged tension that’s been building between us for days. This is about need. Raw, honest need that neither of us can deny anymore.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Ford rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed like he’s trying to center himself.
“Gemma,” he says, and my name sounds different in his voice. Softer. Like something precious.
I don’t know what comes next. Don’t know if this changes everything or nothing or something in between. All I know is that for the first time in four days, the careful distance between us has finally cracked.
And I’m not sorry about it. Not even a little bit.