The Bodyguard (13)

“I don’t need a makeover,” I said—but then I regretted it right away.

The whole room burst out laughing.

“You’re going to shadow Jack Stapleton like that?” Robby said.

I touched my plain brown hair, which was already falling out of its low bun, and then glanced down at my outlet-mall Ann Taylor pantsuit. “Maybe,” I said.

On assignment, I wore whatever blending in required. I’d worn everything from little black dresses, to leather jackets, to tennis outfits. I’d dressed like a teenager, like a punk rocker, and like a frumpy schoolmarm. I was happy to be incognito. I’d do anything to play the part right.

But no matter what I wore on assignment, I always returned to my set point of the Ann Taylor pantsuit—with flats, not heels, because you always have to be able to run.

Footwear really is crucial.

I was still reacting to the makeover idea when Robby said to Glenn, “You should give this gig to Kelly.”

Kelly shrieked with delight at the idea—even though Robby had zero authority to make that call.

Glenn was not a fan of being challenged. He turned to Robby. “What was that?”

Robby flicked a glance in my direction, so we all knew exactly who he was talking about. “She’s not right for it.”

“That’s not up to you.”

Robby gave a half-shrug and said, “Just saying.” And before I had time to even consider if he maybe had a good point, he kept going. “Just look at her,” he said. “She can’t pass in that world.”

Jesus, Robby.

Was this how he was going to compete for the London thing? By sabotaging me?

But I shifted my attention from Robby’s petulant face—which suddenly seemed so much more punchable than I’d ever noticed before—and panned to the right until I landed on Glenn.

“You’re saying I’m the primary on this whether I like it or not?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Why?”

“Because if you want to have a chance at the London job, you need to do it, and do it right. If you don’t knock this assignment out of the park … then Robby’s going to London, and you’re staying right here in Texas on office duty forever.”

He held my gaze in a little mini standoff.

Then he added, “You should be thanking me.”

“I’ll pass on that.”

“You’re doing this,” Glenn said. “And you don’t get to complain, or dial it in, or feel victimized, or pout because life is unfair. Life is unfair. That’s not news. I know exactly what Robby did to you, and I know this isn’t exactly the escape you were looking for—”

“It’s not an escape at all,” I interrupted.

“—but this is the best opportunity you’ve got. So you’re making the most of it. And that starts with a new goddamned wardrobe so you’re not standing next to the Sexiest Man Alive looking like a sad temp who needs a shower.”

Did he think I’d be cowed by insults? I ate insults for breakfast. I squared my shoulders. “Why are you making me prove myself when you already know what I’m capable of?”

“I know what the old you was capable of. This you? I’m still not sure.”

Fine. I thought. I wasn’t entirely sure, either.

Was it everything I wanted? No.

But was it something?

And was I desperate enough to do anything?

“Fine,” I said.

“‘Fine’ what?”

“Fine, I’ll make the most of it.”

Glenn looked at me over his reading glasses. “Damn right, you will.”

“But,” I added, lifting both my eyebrows and pausing so he’d know exactly where I drew the line. “There’s no way I’m doing a frigging makeover.”



* * *



I WANT TO tell you that I was a very cool person who was not flustered by fame. Taylor had once run into Tom Holland at a bar in LA, and she’d lit a cigarette for his friend with a Zippo lighter like a badass. No big deal.

I would not have been so chill.

Reviewing Jack Stapleton’s file, I had to admit, to myself if no one else, I was the opposite of chill.

On paper, he was no different than any other client. He had a bank, and credit cards, just like everybody else. He had two cars back in North Dakota—a vintage Wagoneer and a pickup truck—but he’d leased a Range Rover for his time in Houston. He’d had asthma as a child, and he had a current prescription for sleeping pills. Under “Known Enemies” he had several pages of crazed fans who’d appeared and disappeared over the years, but that was about it. Under “Known Associates/Lovers,” it listed Kennedy Monroe—and somebody, probably Doghouse, had written in “hubba hubba” by her name.

No surprise there.

A normal file. A normal file, dammit.

Fine. Okay. I was not unaware of Jack Stapleton’s charm.

I mean, I wasn’t a fangirl like Kelly. I didn’t have the man’s face on my socks.

But I’d seen most of his movies—except for Fear of the Dark, which was a slasher film and not my thing. I’d also skipped Train to Providence because I heard he sacrificed himself to the zombies in the end, and why would I want to see that?