I tilt my head upward, restraining another eye-roll.
He has no idea that I spent six hours being debriefed this morning abouthimand the entrances, exits, and windows of the two townhouses.
Omega’s recommendation:try to keep him away from windows.I’m not in a gated neighborhood anymore. Windows face public streets. Which means anyone can whip out a camera, point a lens upwards, and try to film him.
Moffy’s 44thrule:I open my own windows.
And there lies the discord. His mom welcomed all the airbags that kept her safe, but Moffy would rather live his life as unrestricted as possible.
It’s considered dangerous.
See, a very small space exists between freedom and safety for celebrities. I fight to give that middle-ground to a client. Especially for someone like Maximoff who wantsthat freedom. But the more he tries to protecthimself, the more we’re going to have a problem.
He can’t be his own bodyguard.
It’s impossible.
“For every one window you open, I get two,” I tell him.
He pauses by the windowsill. “Why the hell would I agree to a lopsided ratio that’s in your favor?”
“Because one-to-two is better than one-to-three.”
He licks his lips. “How about one-to-one?”
I swing my head from side-to-side, considering for less than a second. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” I concede early, surprising him, but I really just need him to let me in somewhere. One-to-one is better than one-to-zero.
My job is about split-second choices that affect his life. And I subtly and quickly weigh risks. My window faces an overgrown magnolia tree that obstructs the street view. Also, if he cared about being caught on camera, he wouldn’t actively go for the window right now.
Conclusion:
Risk = low.
Window = have at it, Moffy.
I keep an attentive eye on him and remove my black sheets and bedding from my duffel.
Maximoff wrenches the crusted window open, muscles flexed. The old wood screeches as it reaches the top.
When he returns to my mattress, he cracks his knuckles. Moffy scans my bedding, his phone buzzing in his jean’s pocket, but it’s been vibrating since I first saw him today.
Earlier, I deduced that he’s ignoring his texts. “Do you need a minute?” I ask.
“For what?” He’s rigid, but he always stands at attention like he’s one breath from sprinting into a fight to save his family.
I nearly smile. “A minute to let this sink in.”
He inhales a strong breath. “Sure. Just change thatminuteto acentury, and I’m good.”
I rest my knee on the mattress, my hand slipping in my pocket. “If I give you a century, you’ll be dead.”
“Great. You can guard my corpse.”
My brows hike. “That’s really adorable that you think I’ll outlive you.”
