The Bodyguard (84)

Why not, right?

But this wasn’t—I think we can all agree—a regular man.

Come on. This was Jack Stapleton. And I was just … me. I mean, from any rational perspective, none of this could possibly be happening.

That wasn’t my opinion.

That wasn’t me being hard on myself.

That was just … true.

“I think I’m having a stroke or something,” I said. “What are we talking about?”

“I’m telling you I have a thing for you.”

“And I’m telling you that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Maybe you’re the one having the stroke.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I like you?”

“Um. Kinda, yeah. You called me ‘plain,’ and ‘non-Hollywood,’ and ‘the epitome of ordinary.’”

“Okay. But those are good things.”

“And stumpy!” I added.

“Well. You’re not tall.”

“I’ve seen your girlfriends, Jack. I’ve got a whole file on them. I am nothing at all like any of those people.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

I gave him a look. “Now you’re just insulting everybody.”

“You’re a real person.”

“Real people are a dime a dozen.”

Jack thought for a second. “Okay. You know the dolls my mom rescues?”

“Yeah?”

“What I’m saying is, the women in your file—those women from my past—they’re the ‘befores.’ And you…” He looked right into my eyes. “You’re the ‘after.’”

And just like that, I got it.

I got what Jack Stapleton meant by “real.”

More than that, I believed him.

Jack kept going. “When you’re not around, even for a little while, I feel like I have to go find you. I just feel this pull to be near you. I want to know what you’re thinking, and what you’re up to, and how you feel. I want to take you places and show you things. I want to memorize you—to learn you like a song. And that nightgown, and the way you get so cranky when I leave my stuff all over the place, and the way you tie your hair back in that crazy bun. You make me laugh every single day—and nobody makes me laugh. I feel like I’ve been lost all my life until now—and somehow with you I’m just … found.”

Jack paused and waited for me to argue with him.

But I just said, “Okay.”

“‘Okay,’ what?”

“‘Okay,’ I believe you.”

“You do?”

I nodded.

“So is that a yes, then?”

“To what?”

“To the date.”

“Yes,” I said, more determined with each word. “Yes.”

That’s when we heard, “Jack?” again from Doc in the back bedroom.

“Yes, sir?”

“The fire pit? Sometime before the sun’s up?”

“Yes, sir.”

I expected Jack to walk off then, but instead, he leaned closer, catching himself on the wall behind me. He brought his face very close, still a little breathless, he lingered there for a second, and then he put his mouth on mine again—this time softer, and sweeter, all lips and warmth and silkiness.

And I just melted into it.

His hand was against the wall, and we weren’t touching anywhere else … but there was absolutely nowhere I didn’t feel it.

And when he pulled back, he looked as lost as I felt.

Then he seemed to remember something, and he gave me a sly smile.

“What?” I asked.

The smile deepened, and he looked down at the beaded pin against my neck and then back up to my eyes. And then, as he took a reluctant, almost woozy step backward, he pointed at me, like Gotcha.

“You,” he said then, “owe me a thousand dollars.”





Twenty-Nine


A DATE. AT Jack Stapleton’s house.

What the hell was I thinking?

I was crazy to go. But I’d be crazy not to go.

Still, it was going to take some courage. And some prep.

Especially since I hadn’t unpacked. So when I suddenly needed to find a great outfit—one that could, in theory, if I chose right, help me feel up to the challenge—I couldn’t find one.

I mean, after a while, I just started dumping the boxes out on the floor and pawing through them.

I had some date-wear in there somewhere.

I’d left myself plenty of time, but as box after box turned up wrinkled sweatpants, I started getting tense.

That’s when I heard a knock at my door.

I looked through the peephole.

There, in the fish-eye lens, was Taylor.

“I’m not home,” I called through the door.

“You clearly are.”

“I’m busy, though.”

“Can I have sixty seconds? I need to say something.”

I cracked the door. “Sixty seconds,” I said.