It’s not just me being pompous or arbitrarily arrogant. For his safety, he has to learn to let me lead.
Thick silence stretches while we both ascend the stairs. I’m not used to uncomfortable tension, and I doubt he is either.
See, I didn’t ask to be his bodyguard. I didn’t apply for the position or submit an application. I fell into the role at his mom’s request.
I like change.
I welcome change. But when one of my favorite pastimes is pissing off Maximoff Hale—I’m not so sure I’d have volunteered for this job.
Another tense beat passes between us before Moffy warns me, “Your room is small.”
I end up smiling because I’ve been in these two townhouses multiple times. They’re identical. Second floor has two bedrooms and the only bath. Third floor is an attic bedroom. Everything else is crammed on the first floor.
Maximoff lives in the third-floor attic inside the other townhouse. A room barely big enough for a full-sized bed, a bookshelf, and a dresser.
I’m about to live in the identical version of that same attic room. “I can manage. It’s the same size as yours.” I glance back at him.
Only two stairs below me, one of the most beloved celebrities stands confident and agitated at my heels.
And he has my fifty-pound suitcase easily hoisted on his shoulders like a soldier carrying a rucksack. He’s not flaunting his strength. With Moffy, he’s just being efficient. Giving himself more room to walk up the narrowest staircase imaginable.
His carved biceps stretch the fabric of his green tee.
I smile. I’m sure most people would faint at his feet right now. Possibly stammer. Maybe try to seduce him. Say all the right things in the right way.
Instead, he has me.
“If only your grammar were as good as your weight lifting skills,” I tell him, “you’d be a real contender.”
“If only your wit was actually funny, I’d be laughing.”
I smile wider. “I wasn’t trying to make you laugh, wolf scout.”
Moffy groans out his irritation, but his lips slowly rise. He scrunches his face until his features set in a scowl.
“Feel better?” I ask and keep ascending the stairs.
He’d flip me off if he had use of his hands, but he never falters with the suitcase. Never struggles. Many tabloids rank Maximoff Hale as the number one hottest celeb.
It’s accurate.
He has eyes like blades of grass, a jawline just as sharp—features so striking that he’s already a treasured, marble relic before adding his statuesque, out-of-this-fucking-world body.
And he’s entered my thoughts in ways that Disney wouldn’t permit. It started three years ago. During his first semester of college.
I’d just become his mom’s personal bodyguard, and she attended one of his swim meets. I sat on the bleachers and watched as he pulled himself out of the collegiate pool, Ivy League banners hanging overhead. Latin insignias scrawled on free wall space.
His muscles flexed when he stood straight and confident at six-foot-two. Pulling his goggles to his head, water dripped down the ridges of his tanned skin. His legs were more muscular. Shoulders broader. He looked older.
I remember thinking, Maximoff Hale is a man.
After that, his image basically invaded my mind during “personal” moments. Being his mom’s bodyguard didn’t really stop me from envisioning Maximoff naked and bent over a bed. Things happen. People pop into your head when you’re rubbing one out.
I’m just glad I have good taste.
When I discovered that I was assigned to his security detail, I didn’t fixate on the fact that I’m attracted to him. It’s irrelevant.
I could have a framed photograph of him that I jack off to every night (I don’t), and I’d still do my job at 100%.
I’m a damned good bodyguard.
One of the best, and nothing and no one will change the fact that I’m going to protect him.
While silence blankets us again, I reach the top of the staircase where a single door lies. I enter my new room with Maximoff close behind.
I let out a long whistle. “You decided to warn me that it’s small but not hot and musty?” I toss my luggage beside my full-bed and test the springs with my boot. Ah, it’ll do. Nothing but a mattress and box springs.
Moffy drops my suitcase by the door. “I’ll check the AC.”
“You don’t need to.” I rub my mouth, my lip piercing cold. Of course saying it’s hot would make him want to fix the temperature. “I appreciate the concern, but this is where you have to stop treating me like a guest or a sibling or really, anyone you feel the need to coddle and protect.” I hold his strong gaze. “And heat rises. We’re in an attic.”
“I’ve never known that before,” he says dryly. “I’ve just been living in the other attic for three years thinking, why the fuck does it feel like hell’s sauna? Thank God you’re here to share this unfound wisdom.”
I have to lean on the brick wall, my smile killing me.
Sarcasm is just written in his DNA. Equipped with verbal pitchforks at birth.
I gesture him onward with my hand. “Keep going.”
“I’m done.”
I roll my eyes before standing off the interior brick wall. They’re all brick, I realize. No mold, luckily, but the wooden ceiling rafters look like they haven’t been dusted in a decade.
I waft my shirt from my chest. It must be ninety degrees in here. It’s August in Philly, summer heat still present, but with the AC cranked low, downstairs is a freezer in comparison to the attic.
I’m about to open the only window, but Moffy already aims for the windowsill. Completely ignoring my earlier speech.
I tilt my head upward, restraining another eye-roll.
He has no idea that I spent six hours being debriefed this morning about him and 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 44th rule: 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 exits between freedom and safety for celebrities. I fight to give that middle-ground to a client. Especially for someone like Maximoff who wants that freedom. But the more he tries to protect himself, 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.”