Page 2 of Fake Lemons Love and Luxury

SEAN

I cross my arms, watching the two newest recruits fumble through what should be a basic restraint technique.

“You call that a proper takedown? My eighty-year-old aunt could break that hold.”

The larger recruit—Jones, according to his application—blushes beneath his crew cut. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don't apologize. Do it right.” I step onto the training mat, demonstrating the proper stance. “Solid base. Controlled momentum. Clear communication with your partner. This is precision work, not a bar fight.”

The quality of applicants has gone downhill of late. After twenty-three years in security, I've developed a sixth sense for who has what it takes. These two don’t, but Marcus insisted we need more bodies for the Lopez contract next month.

This job used to be my adrenaline. Now it’s a schedule. Contracts, drills, background checks. The work still matters, but I pick and choose now. No chaos. No mess. No clients who don’t listen.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't check my phone during training sessions, but when it's Jen calling, I make an exception. The recruits won't mind a five-minute break from me barking orders at them anyway.

I step off the mat where the recruits are practicing takedown techniques.

“Take five. Then I want to see that sequence again, and this time like professionals.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I step off the mat. Jen's face lights up my screen. I move to the corner of the training facility.

“Hello.”

“Dad! Thank goodness you answered.” Jen's voice carries that familiar edge of panic that precedes some minor crisis like a broken heel or a fuse that needs changing. “I need you to do something for me.”

I exhale and wipe my hands on my pants.

“Is this about your latest heartbreak or your hairstylist ghosting you again?”

“It’s not about me. It’s about Wren.”

That name stops me.

“Wren?” My mind conjures an image of a woman with flowing dark hair and expressive hands, telling stories in my living room that had Jen in stitches. The two friends met during Jen’s brief stint at acting school and she used to spend weekends at our house, with big brown eyes and bigger dreams.

“Yes, Wren Sinclair. My best friend? Dad, she's in trouble,” Jen says. “And I don’t mean someone said something mean on Instagram. It’s serious.”

I turn away from the training floor completely, something in Jen's voice pulling my full attention.

“Marcus, take over for ten.”

My second-in-command nods, barking instructions at the recruits while I step into my office. My office is a glass box overlooking the training floor. Privacy without isolation. Just how I like it.

“What kind of trouble?” I ask as I settle behind my desk.

“She's getting threats. Like, scary ones. Someone sent rotting lemons to her office with a nasty note. And the media is crucifying her over some bogus plagiarism claim. Haven't you seen the headlines? Her face has been splashed across every gossip site for days.”

“Sorry, I don’t keep up with celebrity gossip.”

And I don’t keep up with Wren Sinclair. Not after that night…

Jen sighs into the phone. I can hear her pacing now. “Dad. This is serious.”

“I’m sorry about that. But what does this have to do with me?”

“Dad, she needs protection. Real protection, not just some rent-a-cop. I told her you're the best.”

I lean against the desk, staring at the framed photo of Jen and her mom. The one from the beach. The last vacation before the accident. I rub my temple.

“Jen, I don’t mix personal and professional. You know this.”

“Dad, please. She's scared, even if she won't admit it out loud. Wren doesn’t ask for help.”

“She’s still like that?”

“Worse. But she’ll listen to you.”

“I haven’t seen her in what… seven years?”

“You kissed her forehead once, Dad. She still remembers.”

I rub the back of my neck.

“I didn’t kiss her forehead.”

“You almost did. I was there.”

“She was just a kid and I did it to console her after a tough audition.”

“She’s thirty-four.”

I sigh.

“And she has Eric to worry about. He’s six. Paparazzi keep hanging around her.”

The mention of a child shifts something in me.

“She can hire one of my guys. I'll send Marcus. He's excellent.”

“No. She needs you. Dad, please, I wouldn't ask if?—”

“Fine,” I cut her off, knowing I'll regret this. “I'll meet with her. Just a consultation.”

Jen squeals into the phone. “You’re a good man, Sean Langston.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“She's expecting you at the Lemon LLC headquarters at two. I'm texting you the address now. I already told her you’d help.”

“Of course you did.”

I hang up and stand there for a moment, staring at nothing.

Wren Sinclair. It's been years. The memory of that night surfaces despite pushing it away ever since and pretending like it never happened.

Wren in my kitchen late one night after driving Jen home from a party.

The way she looked at me across the counter while I made them both coffee to sober up.

The almost-moment when she leaned in, smelling like strawberries and freedom, before Jen stumbled back in from the bathroom.

I shake my head. Ancient history. Water under the bridge. She was overwhelmed by the attention from the hit TV show she starred in. And me? I was a lonely widower who had no business noticing how her eyes caught the light. I left for a job that took me away from home for the longest time.

The next thing I heard, she was getting married.

It was a relief to hear that because I could finally stop wondering if her cherry lips would be as soft as it looked.

But I also had feelings I couldn’t put into words about my daughter’s best friend.

Even though she was thirteen years younger than me.

She sent me an invite, but I made sure I was out of the country on some job.

I walk out of the office, leaning against the doorway, watching my team train. I’ve built this company to handle corporate security and executive protection. I don't do celebrity babysitting anymore. And I don't take cases with personal connections.

But that almost-moment keeps playing like a film reel on the screen of my mind.

“Everything okay?” Marcus approaches.

“Yeah.” I shrug, pocketing my phone. “Just Jen being Jen.”

“The incompetent twins need at least another week before they're field-ready.”

“They need more than a week.” I sigh, watching as Jones attempts the takedown again and trips over his own feet. “Cut them loose if they don't improve by Friday. We can't afford mistakes.”

“Will do.” Marcus follows my gaze. “You heading out?”

“Got a consultation at two. Potential new client.”

“Anyone interesting?”

I hesitate. “Lemon LLC. Jen’s friend’s in some PR nightmare.”

Marcus raises an eyebrow. “Wren Sinclair? She's been all over the news.”

“You know her?”

“Know of her. My wife loves her. Tries to get me to use one of those tropical face masks.” He gives me a searching look. “Thought you didn't do celebrities anymore.”

“I don't. Just assessing the situation as a favor to Jen.”

Marcus grins. “Last referral from Jen was that reality TV star who thought her houseplants were bugged.”

“Don't remind me.” I grab my jacket from the office. “I'll be back later. Try not to let them injure each other.”

The drive to Lemon LLC's headquarters gives me time to review what I know about Wren Sinclair.

Which isn't much beyond what Jen's told me and what I've seen in passing on magazine covers.

Foster kid turned actress turned entrepreneur.

Created a skincare empire after leaving Hollywood.

Now being accused of stealing her concept.

And somewhere in between, she got married, had a son. I clench the steering wheel. Did I hear news about her getting divorced? I realize I know nothing about her personal life. Jen must’ve mentioned but I didn’t pay much attention.

The Lemon LLC building comes into view. It’s a sleek and modern structure with a subtle lemon motif in the architecture and a large billboard displaying their products.

A small crowd of photographers loiters across the street, cameras ready.

I park my Bronco in the underground garage and take the private elevator up, scanning for security weaknesses out of habit.

The lobby system is decent but outdated.

Three cameras, a single guard. I could think of a dozen ways to bypass it all.

The receptionist directs me to the executive floor.

Existing imagery of the products and Lemon LLC campaigns were added throughout the office.

Everything about the space speaks of careful curation—clean lines, cozy textures, warm lighting, subtle citrus scent in the air. It's impressive. Professional.

“Mr. Langston?” A polished blonde woman with a tablet approaches. “I'm Lily, Ms. Sinclair's assistant. She's expecting you.”

I follow her through a series of corridors, noting security cameras, access points, vulnerable areas. Out of habit, I count steps between exits, identify chokepoints. The place wasn't designed with security in mind.

“Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Langston is here.”

Lily leads me into a corner office and then closes the door behind her.

And there she is.

Wren is standing behind a white desk, phone pressed to her ear. The years have been kind to Wren Sinclair. More than kind. I shove a hand into my pocket.

For a moment, I see double. The twenty-something girl with dyed red hair and nervous energy superimposed over this polished CEO in her tailored blazer and dark hair falling in soft waves past her shoulders.

But Wren isn’t the wide-eyed girl I remember. This Wren commands the space. She holds up one finger in a “just a minute” gesture.

My gaze darts over the office. The centerpiece of her office is its long shelving unit on which Lemon LLC’s assortment of products is displayed alongside PR boxes they’ve created over the years and inspirational books.

There’s a lighted vanity which I recognize from some of Jen’s photos with two full-size mirrors.

I never realized it was Wren’s office all this while.

“Just like I told Raj, I think we should move forward with the launch as scheduled. This will blow over.” Her voice is firm and controlled. “I'll call you back.”

She hangs up and at last looks at me.

Our eyes lock and something shifts in the room. The air feels thicker all of a sudden. There's recognition there. And something else I can't name.

“Sean.” Her voice is lower than I remember, more confident. She steps around the desk, offering her hand. Professional. Cool and Distant. “Thank you for coming.”

I catch a hint of her perfume—something citrus and vanilla, unsurprisingly. Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is firm.

“Wren.” The name feels strange on my tongue after so long. “Jen mentioned you're having some security issues.”

A flicker of emotion crosses her face. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Jen did.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress.”

“I know.”

“But I’m also not stupid. And Eric…” She sighs. “He doesn’t need to be around this.”

The name hits me. Her kid. I glance at the framed picture on her desk. A little boy with curls and a dimple. Wren’s smile on a smaller face.

“Cute smile on him.”

She beams.

“Yeah.”

For a second, neither of us moves. Then she clears her throat, gesturing to a sitting area.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“I'm fine.” I take a seat, noticing the way her shoulders tense as she sits across from me. She's exhausted. I can see it in the tiny lines around her eyes, in the careful way she holds herself together.

“So. Tell me what's happening.” I keep my tone neutral like this is any other client, any other job.

“Someone's trying to destroy everything I've built.” The bluntness in her voice surprises me. “It started with claims that I stole my business concept. Then came the online harassment. Now, I'm getting packages at my office. I fear it’s a matter of time till someone gets my home address and that thought’s unsettling.”

She slides a folder across the table. I flip through the folder containing printouts of threatening messages, photos of the “gifts” left at her door. My jaw tightens.

“And your current security?”

“Building security, a home alarm system.” She brushes hair from her face, a gesture I remember from years ago. “But the paparazzi are getting bolder.”

I sit up straighter. “Your building needs parameter control to begin with. There’s press everywhere.”

She nods.

“I'll need to assess your home, your day-to-day routine, your son's school. If there's an actual threat, we need to identify it.”

“And if there's not?”

“Then you'll have peace of mind.”

Something protective stirs in me as I study her, something I haven't felt in years. I push it down. This is a job, I remind myself. Just another job.

She looks at me with those honey-brown eyes, asking, “So, can you help us?” I know this couldn’t be any more different.

“Yes,” I say, against my better judgment. “I can help.”

And the relief in her smile hits me like a punch to the gut. Somehow, it feels like a foretelling of how the next few months will be.