The Bodyguard (10)

And that’s when, despite everything I had just decided about how getting myself to London would be the answer to all my problems, I said, “You know what? I quit.”





Four


I DON’T HAVE to tell you who Jack Stapleton is, of course.

You probably gasped, too.

My attempt to quit got totally lost in the chaos.

I’m not sure anybody even heard me—except for Glenn, who brushed that declaration off with a glance, like I was an annoying insect. “You’re never quitting. Like I already said.”

I’d been waiting to get out of Texas like a drowning person waiting for a rope. The disappointment of being still stuck here made me feel short of breath.

But I’ll tell you something. Hearing the name Jack Stapleton didn’t not get my attention.

Was protecting a two-time, back-to-back Sexiest Man Alive here in Texas better than protecting some gray-toothed, watery-eyed, pear-shaped oil executive somewhere else?

Fine. Maybe.

Glenn certainly thought so.

“This one’s a doozy folks,” Glenn said, getting his groove back. “It’s a good thing Brooks had time to rest up, because this one’s gonna keep her busy.”

I hadn’t said yes yet, of course.

But, then again, I never said no.

Glenn clicked the remote for the digital whiteboard and flashed a red-carpet photo of Jack Stapleton, in all his six-foot-three dreaminess, up on the conference room screen. “I take it from the collective gasp that we all know who this man is.”

He started clicking through photos. We did this for every new client, but let’s just say that it wasn’t normally quite this … engaging. The first few were professional shots: Jack Stapleton in a T-shirt so snug, it looked airbrushed. Jack Stapleton in ripped jeans. Jack Stapleton in a tux with the bow tie undone, staring into the camera like we were all about to follow him to his hotel room.

“This really is the client?” Doghouse asked, double-checking.

Obviously, yes. But we all waited to hear it again anyway. Because it was just so unbelievable.

“Affirmative,” Glenn said. Then he looked over at Kelly. “Don’t you have a thing for him?”

“What am I?” Kelly said. “A teenager?”

“I feel like I’ve heard his name come up.”

“Functioning adults do not have ‘things’ for actors,” Kelly declared to the room.

That’s when Doghouse, right next to her, put a boot up on the conference table and gave Kelly a sly smile. “Pretty sure she’s got socks with Stapleton’s face on them.”

“Those were a gift,” Kelly said.

“But you wear them,” Doghouse pointed out.

“It’s weird that you know that.”

But that just made Doghouse grin bigger. “Isn’t his picture the home screen on your phone?”

“That’s classified. And it’s weirder that you know that.”

“The point is,” Glenn said, pointing at Kelly as a cautionary tale. “Be professional. Anything you own with the client’s face on it—”

Doghouse started counting off examples: “T-shirts, tattoos, string bikinis…”

“Get rid of it now,” Glenn finished.

Kelly flared her nostrils at Doghouse, but he just gave her a wink.

But Glenn wasn’t here to play. This was a big-deal client and a high-profile gig. He clicked ahead to some paparazzi shots, and we saw Jack Stapleton in a plaid shirt shopping at a farmers market. Jack Stapleton in a baseball cap crossing a parking lot. Jack Stapleton wearing—holy Mary, sweet mother of God—clingy board shorts at the beach, rising up out of the waves, and glistening like a Roman deity.

Taylor spoke for all the women in the room when she let out a long, low whistle.

I felt Robby glance over at the sound, but I didn’t look. Kept my eyes on the prize, as it were.

“Ladies,” Glenn said. “Let’s not objectify the principal.”

The men around the table murmured in agreement.

And just on the heels of that, Glenn clicked to a slide that got the other half of the room whistling. “And this,” Glenn said, “is his girlfriend.”

It was Kennedy Monroe, of course—running Baywatch-style along a perfect beach, not even one dimple of visible cellulite, as if she had the ability to live-photoshop herself in real time. Everybody knew they were dating, and gazing up in awe at the whiteboard, it was no mystery why.

She had a kind of weaponized beauty that made all its own rules.

A couple—ever since costarring in The Destroyers. They’d just been on the cover of People together.

That said, I’d always found it an odd pairing. She was, after all, most famous for the scandal where she falsely claimed to be Marilyn Monroe’s granddaughter and got sued by Monroe’s estate. And then Jack Stapleton had been quoted in an Esquire interview saying, “She’s like a conspiracy theorist—about herself.”

Wow. How did I know this much about them without even trying?

Kelly seemed to be having the same visceral reaction to her that I was. “Will she be here?” she asked, nostrils flaring.

“Nah,” Glenn said. “Just threw that one in for fun.” He clicked up another slide—this one of a guy who looked so much like Jack Stapleton that it made you want to rub your eyes.