Page 13 of The Bodyguard (Club Southside #10)

12

ANDI

T hat evening, the grand hall of the museum shimmered under the glow of opulent chandeliers, casting a golden hue over the assembled elite. Evening gowns and tailored tuxedos moved gracefully across the marble floors, the air thick with the murmur of influential conversations and the clinking of champagne flutes. Tonight's fundraiser was the pinnacle of Andi's campaign events—a convergence of power players, media moguls, and key donors, all under one historic roof.

Andi stood near the entrance, her posture poised, a practiced smile gracing her lips. The deep emerald of her gown complemented her complexion, the subtle shimmer catching the light with each movement. Outwardly, she exuded confidence and charm, engaging in light banter with a local news anchor. Yet beneath the polished exterior, a storm brewed.

The recent threats against both her and Mitch gnawed at her, unsettling her more profoundly than when she and she alone was the one in danger. She knew it was his job and something he was probably used to, but it didn’t sit well with her. She had grown accustomed to being a target; it came with the territory. But Mitch? He was her shield, her constant. She was unprepared to face the possibility of his being harmed.

A familiar presence materialized beside her. Mitch. Even in a tuxedo, he radiated authority, the crisp lines of his attire doing nothing to soften the formidable aura he carried. His eyes, ever watchful, scanned the room with calculated precision, missing nothing.

"Everything okay?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble meant for her ears alone.

She turned slightly, meeting his gaze. "As okay as it can be," she replied, the double meaning not lost on either of them.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Stay close. If anything feels off, let me know immediately. Remember your panic button."

She nodded, appreciating his vigilance, but also feeling the constraints of the invisible leash he kept her on. It was both reassuring and, at times, suffocating.

As the evening progressed, Andi navigated the sea of guests, exchanging pleasantries, delivering heartfelt thanks, and reinforcing her campaign's vision. Yet, a part of her remained tethered to Mitch's presence, acutely aware of his movements, his proximity, the way his gaze never strayed far from her.

Andi stepped away from the conversation with a donor and drifted toward the nearest sculpture, feigning interest in the sweeping iron curves of the installation while forcing her breathing to stay even. Mitch’s presence hovered just behind her, never far, but the warning in his touch earlier had stirred something deeper than instinct.

She was in the midst of a conversation with a prominent philanthropist when a hush rippled through the crowd near the entrance. People exchanged curious glances, and whispers spread like wildfire. Andi's eyes followed the collective gaze, and her heart stilled.

Rick Wexler. The man was a specter from her campaign, a rival whose underhanded tactics had been a thorn in her side more times than she cared to count. His presence here was not just unexpected; it was an affront.

He sauntered in with the confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. His tailored suit, though impeccable, couldn't mask the predatory gleam in his eyes as they locked onto Andi.

Mitch was at her side in an instant, his body a solid barrier between her and Wexler. "He wasn't on the guest list," Mitch stated, his voice devoid of emotion but laced with underlying menace.

"No, he wasn't," Andi confirmed, her eyes narrowing. “He never is. He just shows up and helps himself to food, drink, and, if possible, donations to his campaign.”

Wexler approached, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Andi," he greeted, his tone dripping with feigned warmth. "Quite the soirée you've put together. Impressive."

She didn't return the smile. “Rick, this event is private. I’m quite certain you weren’t invited.”

“It must have been lost in the mail," he chuckled, unfazed. "I make it a point to stay informed about significant gatherings, especially when they pertain to my favorite opponent."

Mitch's stance shifted subtly, a predator ready to pounce. "State your business, Wexler."

Rick's eyes flicked to Mitch, a glint of amusement dancing in their depths. "Ah, the ever-diligent bodyguard; always in the way." He returned his gaze to Andi. "I merely wanted to offer my congratulations. Your campaign is making waves."

Andi's patience was wearing thin. "Cut to the chase, Rick. Why are you really here?"

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Careful, Andi. When you swim with sharks, it's hard to tell where the blood is coming from."

A chill ran down her spine, but she refused to let it show. "Is that a threat?"

"Merely an observation," he replied, straightening. "Enjoy your evening." With that, he turned and melted back into the crowd.

Mitch's hand found the small of her back. "We need to talk. Now."

She nodded, allowing him to guide her toward a secluded alcove away from prying eyes and ears.

Once alone, Mitch's facade cracked just enough for her to see the storm brewing beneath. "He's playing games," he said, his voice tight. "But he's tipped his hand. He knows something."

Andi ran a hand through her hair, frustration clear. "I can't let him rattle me. Not here, not now."

Mitch stepped closer, his presence enveloping her. "You're not alone in this. We'll figure out what he knows and shut it down."

Andi’s throat tightened. “This is my campaign. My event.”

“It’s also a security threat. And he’s not here for a drink.”

He wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it easier to swallow. Every step she took tonight had felt like walking a tightrope strung over a field of landmines. She felt stretched thin by the rumors of a leak, the surveillance breach, the press speculation, and now this.

“Don’t engage him again,” Mitch added. “Not unless you absolutely have to.”

Andi straightened her spine and forced a practiced smile as another supporter approached, thanking her for ‘standing firm on green zoning exemptions,’ whatever that meant. She nodded, listened, deflected. Her responses were on autopilot now, polished and smooth from years of practice. But her eyes kept scanning the crowd.

Wexler lingered near the champagne fountain, shaking hands, smiling like he owned the building. At one point, he turned, locking eyes with her from across the gallery. He raised his glass. Tipped it once. Then smiled.

Not at her. At Mitch. Beside her, Mitch’s stance changed. He didn’t move a step, didn’t reach for a weapon, but she felt it—his whole body shifted from protector to predator.

Andi didn’t dare look away. Not now. “He’s daring you to come to him.”

Mitch’s voice was ice. “Let him. I don’t play games, and I don’t bluff.”

She wet her lips, carefully. “He knows something, Mitch. Or he thinks he does.”

“I’m already on it.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m about to walk into an ambush in heels?”

“Because you are,” he said, gaze never wavering. “The only difference is now you’ve got backup.”

The words shouldn’t have steadied her. But they did.

Still, she couldn’t shake the knot in her stomach—not from fear for herself, but for Mitch. Whatever Wexler was planning, he wasn’t after her career anymore. He was aiming for something else. Something harder to protect, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

She looked up at him, vulnerability flashing in her eyes. "Mitch, if anything happens to you because of me…"

He silenced her with a finger to her lips. "Nothing's going to happen to me. My job is to protect you, Andi. Let me do that."

The air between them thickened, the unspoken words hanging heavy. Despite the danger, despite the chaos, the pull between them was undeniable.

"Andi," he murmured, his hand cupping her cheek. "I need you to trust me."

"I do," she whispered, leaning into his touch.

As they stepped back into the throng of guests, Andi couldn't shake the feeling that the night's events were only the beginning of a more sinister game being played—a game where the stakes were higher than ever, and the cost of losing was more than she was willing to pay.

The shadows in the museum’s east wing stretched long and theatrical, casting clean lines over polished marble and glass. Andi moved through it like she’d rehearsed for a play she didn’t remember auditioning for, all smiles and handshakes, her body humming with the steady burn of awareness.

Of Mitch—he hadn’t left her side all night. Not once.

Not when the press surged at the front steps like wolves sensing a break. Not when the fourth donor in a row decided to test just how available the councilwoman was despite her firm, polished laugh. And certainly not when Rick Wexler had appeared smug and serpent-sleek, acting like he belonged in a space she’d nearly bled to defend.

And through it all, Mitch stayed close—closer than protocol demanded. A steady hand at the small of her back when they moved from room to room. A firm palm at her waist when they paused for photos. Once, when she’d turned too quickly and nearly bumped into a catering tray, he’d caught her elbow and leaned in close enough for his breath to graze her cheek.

“You’re pushing too hard,” he’d said, his voice low and sure. “Slow down. Breathe.”

She had. But only because he told her to. She hated that about him, but she kind of loved it, too.

The buzz of the gala had settled into a rhythmic drone by the time they reached the fourth exhibit room. Glass installations. Reflective surfaces. A thousand versions of herself in polished steel, all of them standing just a little too stiff.

Mitch kept his gaze moving as they walked, his expression carved in stone. But it wasn’t impersonal. Not tonight. Tonight, he touched her like they were something more. Like the rumors weren’t just useful, but deliberate.

Each contact was light. Just fingertips brushing the small of her back. The pad of his thumb against her wrist as he handed her a glass of water. The slow, deliberate way he adjusted the strap on her gown when it slipped slightly down her shoulder—like the room didn’t exist. Like she belonged to him and no one had the right to look.

Andi sipped her wine slowly, hoping it masked the war inside her chest.

“You good?” he asked, his voice pitched for her ears only.

“I’m fine.”

He tilted his head slightly, unconvinced.

She didn’t elaborate. Just gave him her most practiced campaign smile and scanned the next cluster of guests for anyone she needed to talk to—or avoid.

“Stop,” Mitch said suddenly, the authority in his voice like a tether.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re looking for him again.”

She didn’t have to ask who he meant. Rick. He’d been gone for half an hour, but she couldn’t stop scanning for him. Couldn’t stop waiting for the next move.

“You said he wouldn’t pull anything here,” she whispered.

“He won’t,” Mitch said. “Not tonight. But he wants you fearful. Distracted. That’s the game.”

“It’s working.”

He didn’t say she was wrong. He didn’t try to feed her comfort or tell her she was stronger than this. He just watched her. Measured her. And then he did something unexpected. He stepped in, close—so close her spine almost brushed the mirror behind her. He lifted his hand, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear, as if they weren’t surrounded by thirty people and a camera crew ten feet away.

Her breath caught.

“Mitch—”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough for her heartbeat to stutter and spike. He leaned in. She tilted her chin instinctively, lips parting—and then he stopped.

His lips hovered half a breath from hers. Close enough that her skin tingled. Close enough that her body screamed for the contact. But he didn’t move. Didn’t kiss her. Didn’t let her close the distance, either.

“Not here,” he said. Quiet. Steady. Final.

Their moment was interrupted by the distant chime signaling the commencement of the evening's speeches. Andi straightened, the mask of the poised politician slipping back into place.

"Time to face the music," she said, forcing a smile.

Mitch nodded, but his eyes betrayed his reluctance to let the moment go. "I'll be right there with you. Just remember, I’m the leader of the band."

She stared up at him; the adrenaline twisting inside her. It wasn’t rejection—it was restraint, and it shook her more than if he’d kissed her.

Because if he could hold back now—when every part of her was leaning into him, aching for that next step—then he was holding back everywhere. Not because he didn’t feel it, but because he did. Because it mattered.

“Councilwoman!”

The call came from the center of the room. A photographer waving her over for a shot with the museum board.

Mitch stepped back, the mask slipping back into place with surgical precision.

Andi followed the sound of her name and the crowd that came with it. Her smile locked in again like armor.

But something had changed. She wasn’t just wondering anymore. She didn’t doubt the heat between them. He was holding back. And that meant she wasn’t imagining a damn thing.

The night wore on. Too many hands. Too many speeches. Too many people pretending to give a damn about city zoning while quietly asking who she was sleeping with.

She played the game. Delivered the lines. Kept her voice steady and her posture regal.

At one point, she needed to take a breath and was able to step outside for air. Mitch didn’t follow. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

The garden terrace was quiet. Tucked behind the museum’s west wing, lit by antique lanterns and shielded by tall hedges. Andi wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and breathed in the scent of summer blooms.

She heard nothing at first—not until the crack split the air like a whip. Gunshot.

Glass shattered behind her—a high, crystalline wail as one of the third-floor windows blew out. Screams followed. Running footsteps. Security radios crackling to life.

Andi ducked instinctively, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Mitch—” she started, already moving.

Then he was there—materializing from the shadows like he’d never left her side. He grabbed her, one hand on her waist, the other braced around her shoulders, guiding her behind the stone wall with lethal efficiency.

“Stay down.”

“I’m fine…”

“Don’t argue,” he snapped.

The look in his eyes stopped her cold. It wasn’t panic. It wasn’t fear. It was precision. Control.

He swept the area around them, called in a lockdown on his comms, and steered her behind the barrier before she had time to blink. Then, and only then, did he let go.

“Someone just tested the building’s perimeter,” he said, low and tight.

“Like before,” she whispered.

He nodded. Except this time, he wasn’t the target. It had been aimed at both of them. And the next time, she knew, it wouldn’t be a warning. Chances were, it would hit its target.