There's vulnerability beneath the question that catches me off guard. As if she's genuinely concerned about being a burden.
"I took the job," I say simply. "I knew what it entailed."
"That's not an answer." She presses.
"I won't get tired of it."
She raises an eyebrow. "No? Most people can't stand being around celebrities for more than a few hours. We're notoriously high maintenance."
"Are you high maintenance, Nova?"
"I can be."
"Then be high maintenance. I've handled worse."
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest that I don't want to examine too closely.
"You're not what I expected," she says.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more... intimidating. Less..." She gestures vaguely.
"Less what?"
"I don't know. Human."
The admission surprises me. Most clients see me as a weapon, shield, and means to an end. Not a person with needs and flaws and a life outside their problems.
"I'm plenty human," I say, not sure why it matters that she knows this.
"I'm starting to see that." Her smile is soft, almost intimate in the fading light. "It's nice."
We finish our meal as the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. I find myself watching Nova more than the view, the way the light plays across her features, highlighting cheekbones that have launched a thousand magazine covers.
But it's not her beauty that draws my attention. It's the way she seems to shed layers with each passing hour. The carefully constructed pop star giving way to something more real, more vulnerable. More ‘human’ as she put it.
It's dangerous, this glimpse behind the curtain. Dangerous because it makes her more than a client. More than a responsibility. It makes her a person I'm starting to genuinely want to protect, not because I'm being paid to, but because something in me recognizes something in her.
Two people lost in the identities they've created. Two people seeking something real to hold onto.
"I should check the perimeter before it gets dark," I say, standing abruptly. I need distance, perspective. "Security protocols."
She looks up at me, something knowing in her expression. "Of course. Security first."
"Always."
I collect our plates, avoiding her eyes. "Make yourself at home. The living room has books, and an entertainment system. WiFi password is on the fridge, but don't use any accounts that could be traced back to you. No social media, no emails to friends, nothing that puts a location pin on you."
"I know the drill." She stands, stretching in a way that makes her shirt ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above her jeans. "I'll just grab a book and relax. It's been a long day."
I nod and head inside, depositing the dishes in the sink before grabbing my security tablet and jacket. I need air. Space. Clarity.
Outside, I walk the perimeter of the property methodically, checking sensors and cameras more from habit than necessity. The system is state of the art, designed by a paranoid ex-operative with too much time and money on his hands.
No one gets within a mile of this place without me knowing.
So why do I feel so on edge?
