“It must be hard to date and be a bodyguard,” Jack says, treading a flirty line and surprising me a little. It’s not often that happens. I always feel ten steps ahead of most people.
I nod just as slowly. “Impossible is more like it.”
“What is it all of you guys say…bodyguards are like spouses to their clients.”
You guys.
It dawns on me that he’s talking about all the bodyguards. I’m lumped in with the lot, even if my style of guarding doesn’t match most. I don’t really love that phrase. I’m around Charlie more than a spouse would be. I’m not just his husband. I’m his brother. I’m his father. I’m his cousin. I’m every relationship he has all rolled into one.
But I don’t tell that to Jack. The easiest way to send someone running would be to announce that I have someone else attached to me 24/7. I mean, technically he knows, but I don’t need to spell it out like that.
“Yeah, it’s not easy, but I don’t want to be single forever,” I tell him. “Even if Charlie is my job, and my job is all-consuming.”
He lets out a short laugh. “I know the feeling.”
Production and security are fire and water. Bodyguards want to extinguish one-half of every smoldering ember the docuseries stokes among the public. We have polarizing goals, but we have to coexist.
As hot as Jack is, I know that crossing any line with him is like stepping into a rigged heavyweight match. But it’s nice to hear that he at least relates on this level.
My eyes flit to the camera around his neck. “You have to get back?”
He’s here to work. Unlike me. He filmed the wedding and is supposed to be taking more videos of this reception.
I’m distracting him.
“Not yet.” He leans his ass more against the closed trunk. “I have a couple more minutes to kill.” His eyes flit up and down me again, and he tinkers with his camera as he says, “You know being single at weddings has its benefits.”
“Yeah?”
“All the single people start wishing they were in a relationship—or at the very least in someone else’s bed.”
Can relate.
But I don’t get the words out before he says, “Some of my best lays have been at weddings.”
“Atweddings.” I grin. “You hooking up in the broom closet, Long Beach?”
He matches my grin. “What are you, a stickler for specifics?”
“Maybe.” I toss the last of my food in my mouth.
His smile hits his eyes. “Notatthe wedding.Afterthe ceremony,” he clarifies. “One time I didn’t make it that far.”
Fuck. I’m intrigued. Full-blown, I want to dive into this conversation and never leave. But my muscles have also tensed considerably. Talking about sex and work and weddings without anyone else around feels like stepping out onto a tightrope. One false move and I’m plunging fifty-feet.
“Now you have to tell me,” I say.
He shrugs with just one shoulder. “I’veprobablyalready carved out a spot in hell.”
I put two-and-two together, and my grin overtakes my face. “Did you…” I laugh. “Did you fuck in a church?”
“Catholic church. Back pew. The bride was a family friend from California.”
I cock my head. “You fucked the bride?”
He laughs. “No. Definitely did not do that, Oscar.”
We share a softer smile.
