Page 9 of Escorting the Bodyguard (Hearts for Hire #4)

Gemma

“I can’t believe you said yes to this.” I breathe in the fresh air and revel in the freedom of being outside as we walk up the steps to The Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology.

Ford’s jaw is already tight as his eyes sweep the street, probably memorizing every face, cataloging every potential threat. “One hour,” he mutters under his breath. “This was a bad idea.” Even here, in broad daylight outside a fashion museum, he’s coiled tight as a spring.

I think about the last week since Ford kissed me again—how we’ve christened every surface in that safehouse with incredible sex that left me breathless and boneless. The kitchen counter. The desk in the surveillance room. The living room couch when we couldn’t even make it to the bedroom.

But even mind-blowing orgasms haven’t been enough to cure the restlessness scratching under my skin.

It had taken three days of careful arguments about my mental health and the fact that I was slowly losing my mind in that safehouse before Ford caved. He didn’t want to risk it, but we compromised on one hour at this quiet museum.

“There’s been no sign of him for over a week,” I remind him. “No sightings, no credit card activity, nothing.” Like waiting for a storm that might never come.

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is,” Ford mutters, but he reaches over and squeezes my hand as we approach the entrance.

The security guard barely glances at us as we pay admission. Ford’s jaw unclenches by maybe half an inch as he takes in the spacious, well-lit galleries and the handful of other visitors scattered throughout—mostly art students and a few fashion enthusiasts like myself.

“See?” I gesture around the peaceful space. “Perfectly safe. The most dangerous thing here is probably someone getting too excited about a vintage Balenciaga and knocking over a display case.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches. “Stay close to me.”

I should probably examine why that small concession makes my chest feel so warm, but I don’t want to. Not today.

As we move deeper into the galleries, my shoulders relax and my breathing deepens. I’m practically buzzing with excitement to show Ford everything I love about this place.

I move through the exhibits slowly, reading every placard, pausing to admire the handwork in a 1920s beaded evening gown. When I find a display on corset construction, I can’t help myself.

“Look at this boning technique.” I lean closer to study the internal structure visible through the cutaway model. “See how they’ve curved the steel? Most people think corsets are just about restriction, but look—they’re creating the silhouette while still allowing movement. Pure engineering.”

Ford steps beside me, his scent slipping under my skin, setting off sparks deep in my gut. “You know a lot about this.”

“I read.” I glance up at him, suddenly self-conscious. “I mean, I’ve always been interested in how clothes are made. The construction of things.”

We move to the next exhibit, a collection of vintage sleepwear and lingerie. I pause in front of a silk negligee from the 1940s, studying the exquisite detailing.

“The craftsmanship is incredible,” I murmur, studying the impeccably-preserved piece. “French seams, hand-finished edges, completely enclosed. It probably took days to finish a single piece. I use a similar technique on the lingerie I make, though mine are nowhere near this level.”

Ford steps closer, his attention shifting from the display to me. “You make your own?”

“It’s just a hobby,” I say quickly, the automatic deflection rolling off my tongue. “I taught myself from YouTube tutorials, mostly. Trial and error.”

His gray eyes hold mine for a moment, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “Those silk pieces you wear to bed?”

I nod, suddenly hyperaware of his proximity.

“Trying to keep my hands off you in them is almost impossible.” His voice drops, rougher now. “I thought you were trying to kill me. They’re beautiful, and you look...” He pauses for a second, eyes dragging over me. “They fit you perfectly. Like they were made for you.”

“They were,” I say with a small laugh. “Literally. But it’s just for fun,” I downplay it, as usual. “Nothing serious.”

“That’s not nothing,” he says quietly, his gaze moving between me and the vintage negligee. “That’s talent.”

My throat bobs. The simple words hit me somewhere tender, somewhere I wasn’t prepared to be touched.

I look away, not used to being seen this way, not used to having someone recognize that having something truly mine—something that doesn’t involve performing or pleasing or being what someone else needs—is rare and precious.

When was the last time someone valued what I make instead of what I do for them?

“Come on.” I clear my throat, needing to move past this moment. “Let’s see the rest.”

Back at the safehouse, I retreat to the bedroom for a nap.

The afternoon has left me feeling oddly drained. Maybe it’s just being out in public again after days of hiding, or maybe it’s the way Ford looked at me when I talked about my sewing. Like he was filing it away, adding it to whatever mental picture he’s building of me.

I curl up on top of the covers, still fully dressed, and let my eyes drift shut. Maybe an hour of sleep will help me feel more like myself again.

When I wake up, the light coming through the bedroom windows has that golden late-afternoon quality. I feel groggy and disoriented, my mouth cottony. I can hear the shower running in the bathroom—Ford must be cleaning up after his workout.

A wicked idea forms in my sleepy brain. We’ve been dancing around each other all day, tension building since the museum. We’ve christened every surface in this place except the shower. Maybe it’s time to do something about it.

I pad barefoot toward the bathroom. The door is closed, so I turn the handle quietly, planning to slip inside and surprise him.

But I’m the one who ends up surprised.

Through the clear glass shower door, I can see Ford’s back turned toward me—and the scars I never knew were there.

Burn scars, from what I can tell, spreading across his lower back and wrapping around his side.

Not fresh, but not old enough to have completely faded either.

The skin is mottled, slightly raised in places, telling a story he’s never shared.

This is why he’s never let me touch him there. Why he keeps his shirt on, why he deflects when I try to explore.

The water streams over the damaged skin, and for a moment I’m frozen by the raw vulnerability of it. Not because the scars are ugly—they’re not. But because I can see how much he’s been hiding.

He must sense my presence because he turns, and when he sees me standing there, his whole body goes rigid.

“Jesus, Gemma.” His voice is sharp with surprise and something that might be embarrassment. “I thought you were asleep. Ever heard of knocking?”

Heat floods my face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—I was going to surprise you?—”

But then I see the way he’s positioning himself, trying to angle his back away from me even in the enclosed shower, and a tightness grips my throat.

“You don’t have to hide from me.” It’s quiet, but I know he hears it.

For a moment, we just look at each other through the steam and glass. His jaw works like he’s fighting with himself.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he says eventually, his voice rough. “It’s not...”

He doesn’t finish, but I understand.

I step closer to the shower door and place my palm flat against the glass. After a heartbeat, he mirrors the gesture from his side, his hand covering mine with only the barrier between us.

“Ford,” I whisper. “Whatever you think this says about you, you’re wrong.”

Something breaks in his expression—a wall cracking. He reaches over and turns off the water, the sudden silence making the moment feel even more intimate.

He gets out and grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it around his waist, but he doesn’t try to cover his back or turn away.

There’s something fragile in his expression, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind.

I open my mouth to reassure him, but before I can say anything else, he’s moving toward me, one hand cupping my face as he kisses me.

The kiss is soft, almost tentative, like he’s still not entirely sure this is real.

When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine for a moment. Stillness lingers between us, pulsing with all the things we’ve yet to say.

And that’s okay. This is enough for now.

That evening, I make a decision that feels both terrifying and liberating.

I come out of the shower and, for the first time since we’ve been sharing space, I don’t put on makeup. No foundation, no concealer, not even a tinted lip balm. Just my clean, bare face and damp hair twisted up in a messy bun.

This is me without the armor. This is what I look like when I’m not performing.

And part of me still believes this version doesn’t deserve to be chosen.

When I settle into bed beside Ford, he glances over and his gaze lingers on my face.

“You look nice.” There’s a warmth in his voice that makes my chest tight.

It’s such a simple thing to say. And somehow, the hardest one to believe.

We lie there for a moment in comfortable silence, the space between us charged but not desperate like it has been. Tonight feels different. Softer.

“Why do you always...?” Ford stops mid-sentence.

“What?”

He gestures vaguely toward my face. “The makeup, even to sleep sometimes. You don’t need it.”

The question cracks something open in my chest. Not because it’s invasive, but because it’s the first time someone has noticed the armor and asked about it instead of just accepting it as part of the package.

“It’s just what I’ve always done,” I say, but even as the words come out, they sound hollow.

“Always?” His voice is gentle, curious. “Even when you were young?”

“Yeah.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “My mom taught me that, actually. She always said that love was something you had to earn. That if you weren’t perfect enough, polished enough, worth keeping, then people would leave.”

I flash to her voice on prom night, lips pursed as she studied me in the mirror. “If you’d just lose twenty pounds, you’d look amazing. Maybe then he’ll stick around.”

She said it like it was helpful. Like it was love.

“That’s a hell of a thing to put on a kid,” Ford says quietly.

He turns onto his side, giving me his full attention. In the dim light, his gray eyes are steady, patient.

“When my father left, she blamed us both.” My voice gets quieter. “Said if we’d been better... thinner, prettier, less trouble... maybe he would’ve stayed.”

I pause, swallowing hard.

“She spent the rest of her life trying to be perfect for the next guy. And the next one. I just...I learned that you had to earn it, you know? That if someone was going to stick around, you had to make it worth their while.”

Ford’s hand finds mine in the darkness, his fingers intertwining with mine.

“I guess I’ve always felt like...” I struggle for the words. “Like if someone saw the real me—when I’m tired or messy or not put together—they’d realize I’m not worth the effort.”

We lie facing each other, breaths mingling, and it’s the most intimate moment we’ve shared.

“You’re enough.” Ford’s voice is rough. “Just like this. Just you.”

Some small door inside me creaks open, and light starts to spill in.

Just you. Like that’s not the thing I’ve spent my entire adult life being convinced isn’t sufficient.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all. When he reaches over and brushes a strand of damp hair away from my face, his touch is gentler than I’ve ever felt it.

We drift toward sleep like that—close enough to feel each other’s warmth, connected in a way that feels entirely new.

Hovering on the edge of dreams, feeling safe and seen in a way I’ve never experienced, I’m almost gone when I hear Ford whisper something in the darkness.

The words are too quiet to catch, but the tone—soft, stunned, almost reverent—speaks directly to my heart.