The Bodyguard (86)

Was it totally ridiculous for me to try to date a movie star?

Absolutely.

Was I going to do it anyway?

You bet.





Thirty


BECAUSE JACK’S THREAT level had been downshifted to white, there was no security team at his place—thank God. The last thing I needed in those strappy heels was to make my way through some kind of EP agent obstacle course of judgment and mockery.

The security cameras on the property were still running, of course.

I rang Jack’s doorbell, trying not to imagine Glenn surveilling me and saying, “Is that Brooks? In a dress? What the hell’s she got on her feet?”

I just had to hope nobody was monitoring them.

But Jack didn’t come to the door right away.

I watched an ant making its way across the concrete.

Then I rang again.

Maybe he was in the shower? I crossed my fingers that he hadn’t decided to cook, God forbid.

Then, a few minutes after my second ring, Jack opened the door—but only partway.

He’d gotten a haircut—and now it was spiking up in an intimidatingly movie-starish way, like he’d just finished a shoot for GQ. He was also freshly shaved. He had a Norwegian sweater on. And another change: He was wearing his contacts instead of his glasses. It was the first time I’d seen him without his glasses in real life.

All together? It made him look a little like a different person.

Less like Jack Stapleton the piggyback-ride giver—and more like Jack Stapleton the movie star.

Holy shit. Jack Stapleton was a movie star.

I felt a cramp of anxiety. The impossibility of it all hit me again.

Was this happening? I guess it was.

But that’s when Jack said, “Yes?” in a voice that sounded … blank.

Just a very slightly clipped tone—anonymous and disinterested, like he didn’t know me, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to. Like I was maybe a cable repair guy. Or a political canvasser. Or a census-taker.

It was just that one syllable. But it was enough to register.

“Hey,” I said, holding up a wine bottle with a slight air of caution. “I brought wine.”

I took a step closer, expecting him to swing the door open.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he frowned. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you here?”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s not even joke.”

But that’s when Jack nodded back toward the interior of the house and said, “I’ve actually got some guests here right now, so…”

“You do?” I said.

“Yeah. So.”

“Wait—wasn’t it tonight?”

“Wasn’t what tonight?”

What was going on? He had asked me out, right? I hadn’t dreamed it, had I? “What’s going on?”

He frowned at me like he had no idea what I was talking about. “I’ve just got friends over, so … Kinda busy.”

He started to swing the door closed.

On instinct, I tried to use the Robby trick of blocking the door with my foot—forgetting, of course, about my ridiculous footwear—and Jack wound up shoving the door closed on it, the metal weather stripping slicing my toes and breaking the leather sandal straps.

The pain shot up my leg like a rocket. I snatched my foot back, let out a string of curse words, and then hopped around for a minute before I noticed I was bleeding.

“Ouch,” Jack said in a sucks-to-be-you voice. He watched me without any detectable sympathy—mostly just looking bored.

When I’d settled, he said, “Anyway,” and moved to close the door again.

“Wait!” I said.

Jack gave an irritated sigh.

“What about…” I started. But I didn’t know how to ask the question. I held up the bottle of wine.

“You can just leave that on the porch,” he said, like I was a delivery person. “I’ll get it later.”

“Jack!” I said then, finally standing straight. “Wasn’t tonight our date?”

Jack frowned like he had no idea what I meant. The utter noncomprehension on his face was enough to flood my whole body with humiliation. Then, as if pulling a vague memory from the deep mists of time—and not, you know, yesterday—he said, “Ohhh.” Nodding. Like that explained everything. “The date.”

What the hell? He’d asked me out twenty-four hours ago. Was he joking? Sleepwalking? Drunk? And who accidentally injures another person—another living creature, even—to the point of bleeding all over the doorstep and just stands there like a psychopath? What was happening?

I turned the situation around in my head like I had one last puzzle piece, but it just wouldn’t fit.

But then Jack slid the piece into place for me.

He tilted his head, and in a voice nothing short of saturated with pity, he frowned in mock sympathy and said, “Did you think that was real?”

Everything in my body just stopped at that moment. My heart stopped beating, my blood stopped flowing, my breath stopped moving in and out.

Maybe time itself stopped, too.

Jack looked at me like I was supposed to answer that question—and waited. His face was all curiosity.