“And the limp?”
“Part of that, too. I’ll spare you the gory details. But suffice to say, it was career-ending, life-shattering. Meant a medical discharge from the Guard, too.” He stares away, sadness lingering in the black depths of his gaze.
I pull the laptop closer, staring at the screen determined. “Which is why I shouldn’t do this. Not now. Not with you involved.”
Surprise washes over his face for one flickering moment, like a candle catching flame.
I shake my head, seeing how selfish I’ve been all this time. “It’s not lost on me that there will be hell to pay when this comes out. There will be questions about your involvement with me—withthis.”
“Mia, don’t make a decision about your life and your future because of me?—”
“Grayson will want to know how much you knew about this,” I whisper, “and you won’t be able to lie because that’s not who you are.”
He reaches forward, presses the laptop shut, face solemn. “Decision’s already made, right?”
I nod.
“Now we live with it.” He pauses for one moment, studying the countertop. “Grayson will hear about this later.”
A high-pitched screech slices the air. The kettle. Angry, accusatory.
He extinguishes the burner, grabs mugs, fills mesh balls with loose-leaf tea. Blueberry and lavender fill the air as he fills the mugs.
The grandfather clock ticks and ticks and ticks.
He faces me, rounding the counter and sitting next to me. “You okay?” he asks, concern flooding his usually stoic face.
I twist my hands together, fingers voicing the anxiety I refuse to speak into existence. His big hand comes up, drops over mine, stilling them.
The clock still beats. The tea still steams. The lonely sound of a chuck-will’s-widow carries somewhere off in the distance.
Or maybe it’s something else.
His eyes fix on the window. His work never ends, but his gaze doesn’t scan restlessly. Instead, he seems stuck on something. Some small detail I don’t see.
“I’m afraid of how much this will cost you,” I say in low tones, biting my bottom lip.
He straightens, face softening. “Already given me much more than it cost me, Mia Lowell. Maybe I’m not cut out for this bodyguard thing, anyway.”
“Back to wandering, then?” I ask, voicing the ache behind my ribs. I know better than to indulge it, but it’s still there.
He shrugs, turning his hand palm up and capturing my fingers. “Don’t want to think about the future right now. Just want to feel.”
So, we sit in the silence until I’m certain it’s too late.
Warm tears streak my cheeks, and I sniffle. He pushes the Kleenex box closer.
“This will force his hand,” I say into the silence, like naming it might keep me steady.
Peach and goldlight threads through the curtains, the world still too quiet. But the air holds a rising heat that tells me everything’s different now.
A faint buzz startles the big bodyguard, still holding my hand, and he eases to his feet. My palm is still warm where he comforted me as he eyes the screen of his phone, face going rock hard. “Excuse me while I take this outside.”
I nod, throat tightening. On the other side of the door, I hear the rumble of his voice. I can’t make out the words, but I can feel the force behind them. Not angry—unsettled.
I grab a tissue, dabbing at my eyes and cracking my laptop open again. The post is trending along with my name—both names. Comments crowd the screen. Most filled with alarm or concern. Some gaslighting. Others spewing lies and vitriol.
I am no longer invisible in this situation.
