Chase sighs audibly, turning toward the door. “Well. Let’s get this over with.”
“Mmm. I can’t wait,” I deadpan, grabbing my bag and my coffee. But then I snag my heel on the threshold of the door and stumble a bit.
He doesn’t even turn back to check on me.
“Nice,” I whisper to myself as I follow my shitty new bodyguard down the hall.
Chapter 4
Chase
I’m reeling.
This woman’s worse than I expected, and I didn’t think that was possible.
I check out the windows to make sure no one’s followed her before we exit the building, then I march down the steps and she trips alongside me in those five-inch spiked heels. For a woman who dances professionally in front of millions, she is shockingly clumsy.
When I first spotted her outside the gym, I could tell she was someone struggling with her mental health. But now that I know who she really is, I’m worried she’s having a full-on breakdown.
There’s no limo or anyone else waiting for her in the lot. “Where’s your driver?”
She shrugs. “He left.”
“Heleft?” I stare at her overly made-up face. “Is he coming back?”
“No, I don’t think so. I thought I was done with the car.”
I sigh. “Fine, we’ll take my car.” I hit the button to unlock my Mercedes-Benz S-Class and open the door on the passenger side. Even if she is the last person I want riding with me, I’m still a gentleman.
She gingerly sets her coffee cup in the holder, then settles herself on the seat so as not to crumple her already disheveled evening gown. She looks up at me with an odd expression, but I close the door anyway, then climb in and turn the key in the ignition.
“Do you know… Have we met before?” she says.
Uh-huh. Total mental breakdown.
“No. Where are you staying?”
She gives me a smirk. “Actually, I don’t know.”
“You don’tknow? As in, you’re not sure where it is? Or you don’t have a place lined up at all?”
Her back straightens, and she looks indignant. I’m guessing it’s one of her go-to expressions. “I figured I could find something when I got here. With the disguise and all.”
I’m staring at that eye patch, the most garish part of her costume, and I realize it might be the reason she’s stumbling around. It’s affecting her depth perception.
“Speaking of.” I tap my eye. “You can probably take that thing off.”
“Nope, I’m good.” She leans back in her seat, tipping her chin up with pride. It’s making that obviously fake birthmark stand out even more.
Yesterday I wouldn’t have been able to pick Harper Slade out of a lineup. I couldn’t name a single one of her songs, and I still have no idea what she looks like under that whole getup. But I do remember a bit of trivia about her: She has a distinctive birthmark somewhere—on her cheek, maybe? What did she do? Cover up the real birthmark and draw on a fake one?
This girl is something else.
“I’d like to stay in a house, like normal people do.”
Her words are conceited, but I hear a hint of longing underneath them too. As though she doesn’t feel like a normal person, and she wants to.
That resonates with me. I’ve been there. But I’m her bodyguard, not her therapist.
