Page 22 of The Bodyguard

“You’re doing this,” Glenn said. “And you don’t get to complain, or dial it in, or feel victimized, or pout because life is unfair. Life is unfair. That’s not news. I know exactly what Robby did to you, and I know this isn’t exactly the escape you were looking for—”

“It’s not an escape at all,” I interrupted.

“—but this is the best opportunity you’ve got. So you’re making the most of it. And that starts with a new goddamned wardrobe so you’re not standing next to the Sexiest Man Alive looking like a sad temp who needs a shower.”

Did he think I’d be cowed by insults? I ate insults for breakfast. I squared my shoulders. “Why are you making me prove myself when you already know what I’m capable of?”

“I know what the old you was capable of. This you? I’m still not sure.”

Fine. I thought. I wasn’t entirely sure, either.

Was it everything I wanted? No.

But was it something?

And was I desperate enough to do anything?

“Fine,” I said.

“‘Fine’ what?”

“Fine, I’ll make the most of it.”

Glenn looked at me over his reading glasses. “Damn right, you will.”

“But,” I added, lifting both my eyebrows and pausing so he’d know exactly where I drew the line. “There’s no way I’m doing a frigging makeover.”

I WANT TOtell you that I was a very cool person who was not flustered by fame. Taylor had once run into Tom Holland at a bar in LA, and she’d lit a cigarette for his friend with a Zippo lighter like a badass. No big deal.

I would not have been so chill.

Reviewing Jack Stapleton’s file, I had to admit, to myself if no one else, I was the opposite of chill.

On paper, he was no different than any other client. He had a bank, and credit cards, just like everybody else. He had two cars back in North Dakota—a vintage Wagoneer and a pickup truck—but he’d leased a Range Rover for his time in Houston. He’d had asthma as a child, and he had a current prescription for sleeping pills. Under “Known Enemies” he had several pages of crazed fans who’d appeared and disappeared over the years, but that was about it. Under “Known Associates/Lovers,” it listed Kennedy Monroe—and somebody, probably Doghouse, had written in “hubba hubba” by her name.

No surprise there.

A normal file. A normal file, dammit.

Fine. Okay. I was not unaware of Jack Stapleton’s charm.

I mean, I wasn’t a fangirl like Kelly. I didn’t have the man’s face on my socks.

But I’d seen most of his movies—except for Fear of the Dark, which was a slasher film and not my thing. I’d also skipped Train to Providence because I heard he sacrificed himself to the zombies in the end, and why would I want to see that?

But I’d seen all the others, including The Unhoneymooners so many times I’d accidentally memorized the scene where he confesses, “It’s so exhausting pretending to hate you.” His dramatic work in A Spark of Light was tragically underrated. And even though You Wish was widely panned for including every single rom-com trope in history—including, of all things, a mad dash to the airport—they still did those tropes really well, and so it was one of my perennial go-tos when I was feeling down.

Also, the way he kissed Katie Palmer in Can’t Win for Losing? Oscar worthy. Why wasn’t there an Oscar category for Best Kiss? He should go down in history for that one kiss alone. The first time I saw it, it just about killed me.

Like, I almost died from delight.

So it was not not a big deal that I’d just been assigned to protect him.

Note the double negative.

He was not not on my radar. I was not not affected by the thought of him.

I’d never have admitted it—least of all to myself—but I did have what you could describe as a perfectly normal, nonpathetic, comfortingly mild, not-at-all creepy little crush on him.