LILY
A wad of fabric sails over my arm and lands in a wrinkled puddle of my partially yet precisely packed suitcase.
“You need some shorts.” My roommate Delilah dons the expression she normally saves for clients that says, ‘Do what I say or die.’
If I were a client, I would comply, but I’m not. I tuck my index finger under the waistband and lift the shorts, studying the large floral pattern that makes my eyes hurt, before dropping them on the bed next to my suitcase. “I have plenty, thanks.”
Which is a lie. I don’t actually own a pair because, as a professional bodyguard, I’m rarely in a position to dress that casually. Unless a client requests we blend in more or the situation requires it, I opt for some version of my usual business attire. And one can never be over-prepared, something I learned during my very brief stint in the Army.
Once my tour ended, I knew I needed to pivot in a new direction. Intending to take a break and think, I wound up in London, thinking I’d explore Europe. That lasted barely a week before I went stir-crazy and decided I wanted to findsome kind of job that would give me the same structure without the constant scrutiny of my gender.
That realization led me to Remington Security, which is owned by one of the best female bodyguards in the industry. And to meeting Delilah, who the firm recruited a year before me. She had a spare room, and I needed a place to land. The rest is history.
Del snatches the shorts off the bed and stuffs them into a gap between my extra pair of black shoes and the stack of pants, which are either black or navy. Another pile of neatly folded button-down blouses in shades of white, pale blue, or cream sits next to it. I add the matching jackets I’ll need for this assignment but ignore her contribution because it’s easier than fighting with her.
She leans over to study the contents of my carefully planned suitcase, then grimaces at me. “Doll, you’re definitely going to need more attractive choices to pull this off. Isn’t that part of this whole scenario? You’re posing as his wife. Don’t you think it will look strange if you always show up,” she waves her hand up and down in front of me, “looking like a corporate exec with a stick up her bum.”
“Shorts offer little protection in a scuffle, and I certainly can’t run in flip-flops.” I pluck the items out and toss them at her.
Using her well-honed reflexes, she snatches them out of the air before they make contact. Her grin turns positively evil. “Your principal is rather yummy, don’t you think? Perhaps you should throw a negligee or two in there as well.”
I roll my shoulders back. “It’s a pretense, remember. Not real, in case you don’t know what that word means.”
“I’m perfectly aware of the meaning, Lil. I’m just encouraging you to let your hair down a little.” She points to my head. “Sometimes, I fear you have that ponytail of yourstied too tightly.”
“It’s a job, not a vacation, Del,” says the woman who doesn’t do vacations. Unlike my roommate, who plays as hard as she works, I have one modus operandi—work. I’ve accepted this about myself, and I’m good at it. But that’s the job. When we’re on assignment, it’s twenty-four-seven. Can’t let your guard down even for a moment because that could mean the death of the client. And that’s a reputation killer.
She yanks out two pairs of jeans and a few shirts from one of my drawers and hands them to me. “Trust me, you’re going to need some more casual attire. I spent a month in Florida for a job, and people there wear shorts everywhere. Even when dining at bougie restaurants.” She pats the stack of garments. “These will do.”
“Fine.” I shove them into the small space left on one side. I could tell her I already packed two pairs of yoga pants and some athletic tops beneath my usual garb. My research revealed this was a popular trend at the moment—to look like you just came from the gym, even if you have no intentions of working out.
Her pout does little to diminish her striking Eurasian features. “And every assignment comes to an end. Why not extend your stay and spend some time on that gorgeous beach? What’s it called again? Avocado something…”
“Mango Key Beach.”
Del ruffles through two of my dresser drawers. “What about a bathing suit? Do you even own one?”
“I’ll buy what I need there.”
She darts out of the room, making me believe I can finish packing in peace, only to return, swinging small swatches of red fabric in each hand. “This is my favorite two-piece. Never fails to grab attention.”
I grab her wrists before she can toss them in. “I’m supposed to blend in, remember?”
“Yes, during the job.” She bounces her eyebrows and singsongs, “But afterward, it’s all fair game.”
I roll my eyes and snort, releasing her wrists so she can shove the vivid red two-piece—and the shorts—into a gap along the edge. “I’ll make sure you get them back.”
“No worries, luv. I have a spare.”
A spare…like my client, Payton Maxwell, the third. I assume he’s adjusting to his new role as a spare heir. The research I did on the Maxwells didn’t look much different from what I imagine any average English family would look like. Parents married for almost thirty years. An older sister who worked as a pediatrician until she had to relinquish her partnership in the practice to take her missing, now presumed dead cousin’s title of Baronet. Youngest and only son is a hockey player. I will say finding that out surprised me—not a typical profession for a Brit.
I zip up my suitcase and carry it to the door where my backpack is sitting.
“That’s it? No books or special items?” She crosses her arms. “They’ll never buy a new bride with no possessions?”
“I’ll simply explain they’re being shipped from the UK. Takes weeks. I’ll be on my way back before they can start to question. Besides, no one’s going to know the difference.”
“What if he invites his teammates over?”
