Spring Break with a Bodyguard (Love Beach Spring Break Collection #11)

Chapter 1

ONE

THEODORA “TEDDY” HOLLISTER

“Three weeks,” Preston Hollister announces, exasperation evident in his voice as his younger brother Brogan stares at him, surprised. “I’ll give you three weeks, Teddy, and that’s it.”

I stare at my cousin in shock. At thirty-four, Preston is one of Love Beach’s richest men, running his family’s hotel empire with an iron fist. Yet he just agreed to one of my ridiculous requests to start from the bottom of the ladder in the Hollister hotel empire.

And I mean, the bottom .

Not the main administrative offices where he’d initially assigned me to follow Charles Danforth III like a puppy as he droned on about assistant manager duties. No, I mean the bottom.

Housekeeping.

“Teddy, are you sure about this?” Brogan asks, his voice a mix of concern and disbelief, his arms crossed across his broad chest. “Housekeeping isn’t exactly... well, it’s not what we had in mind for you.”

I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of leather and polished wood that permeates Preston’s office. “I brought a PR nightmare to your doorstep when I triple-raised the leases to Seaside Square during the holiday season—of all times.” My voice catches as I remember the headlines. “It reminded me that I really don’t know much about the business.”

“That’s why you’ve been shadowing Charlie for the last three months,” Preston says, frowning. “That’s how you’ll learn how our local hotels run... not by working in housekeeping.”

“But that’s the thing, Preston,” I lean forward in my chair. “After shadowing Charlie all this time, I realized I don’t want to just learn how the hotels run from a managerial perspective. I want to understand every aspect, from the ground up.”

The room falls silent, the only sound the faint ticking of the antique clock on Preston’s desk. Their gazes weigh on me, heavy with skepticism.

“Teddy,” Preston says, his voice softening. “I understand you want to make amends, but this... this is extreme. You’re a Hollister?—”

“A poor Hollister,” I add. “Aunt Elaine has been supporting my mother and me for years. I know about the money she sent that Mom lost at the casinos. I know Aunt Elaine paid the university directly for my tuition and dorm while letting me believe it was our money.”

“How did you—” Brogan starts, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

“It doesn’t matter how I found out.” I bite my lip, the memory still raw. Last year, I’d frozen outside Aunt Elaine’s study when I overheard Mom asking her sister for more money, only to learn the truth.

How do you think she made it to her final year, Leticia? Aunt Elaine had demanded, her voice sharp enough to slice through my illusions about our family finances.

That night, I’d stared at my social media accounts, at the carefully curated images of a life I couldn’t realistically afford, and felt something inside me crack.

“Look, I know what you both think of me,” I say, meeting their eyes. “Poor little Teddy, playing at being an influencer, surrounded by people who only care about my last name and the doors it opens. And you’re not wrong.” Their exchanged glance tells me my candor has caught them off guard. “When I ran out of money, my so-called friends vanished faster than free champagne at a gallery opening. They just moved on to the next person who could get them into VIP sections.”

Through it all, Aunt Elaine and her two sons had been my only real support system. While my mother was busy reinventing herself as the trophy wife to some tech billionaire, Preston had set me up in one of the Hollister beachfront townhouses and monitored my spending with a mixture of firmness and compassion I hadn’t appreciated until now.

“And housekeeping is the right thing?” Brogan asks, skepticism in his voice though his expression has softened.

“No, but the hotel business might be,” I reply, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “This empire your parents built, that you’re expanding—it employs hundreds of people, creates experiences, has substance. I want to be part of something real for once.”

Preston studies me, his expression unreadable. “And you think starting as a housekeeper will give you that?”

“I think understanding the foundation of the business will,” I say. “How can I ever belong here, ever contribute anything meaningful, if I don’t understand how every part works?” I meet his gaze. “I’m not just looking for a position, Preston. I’m looking for a home—a real one, built on something solid.”

The silence that follows feels eternal. Preston’s fingers drum a staccato rhythm on his polished desk.

“Teddy,” he says, his voice gentler now, “I understand your desire to prove yourself, but this is unprecedented. The board won’t understand.”

“The board doesn’t need to know,” I say, locking eyes with him. “I’ll work under an assumed name. No one needs to know I’m a Hollister.”

Brogan pushes off from the window, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. “This is insane, Preston. If the press finds out that she’s stripping bed linens?—”

“Not if I work at one of the smaller hotels,” I interject. “And if anyone recognizes me, I can always say I’m my own doppelg?nger.” I give the brothers my best pleading look, the one that used to get me extra dessert as a child. “Please let me prove myself to you.”

“Starting with housekeeping?” Preston’s eyes narrow, something like respect flickering behind his skepticism.

“Starting with housekeeping.”

He leans back, the leather creaking softly beneath him. “The Sandpiper,” he says finally. “It’s one of our smaller properties, tucked away on the north end of the beach. Less traffic, less chance of you being recognized.”

Brogan inhales sharply. “Preston, you can’t seriously be considering this.”

“She’ll find a way anyway,” Preston says, running his fingers through his dark hair before turning to face his brother. “And you’ll be in charge of keeping her safe. You’re the one with the security firm.”

Brogan’s jaw clenches, his gaze darting between Preston and me. The tension in the room pulses with each passing second.

“Fine,” he says, his voice tight as I nod, trying to hide the excitement flaring in my chest.

This is it. My chance to prove myself.

“Three weeks,” Preston adds. “After that, you return to shadowing Charles until you’re ready for more responsibility. And Teddy, this stays between us.”

I nod solemnly.

“You start tomorrow,” he continues. “6 AM sharp. HR will prepare the paperwork under your assumed name. What will it be?”

I hesitate for a moment. “Theresa,” I reply. “Theresa Holden.” Close enough to my real name that I won’t forget to respond, but different enough to avoid suspicion.

Preston nods, his fingers already tapping at his keyboard. “Theresa Holden it is.”

“Next week is spring break,” Brogan says, groaning. “Love Beach will be wild.”

“Wild is an understatement,” Preston mutters. “The Sandpiper may be one of our smaller properties, but it’ll still be packed. Are you sure you’re ready for this, Teddy?”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in my stomach. The thought of facing hordes of rowdy spring breakers while learning housekeeping is daunting.

“I’m ready,” I say, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel. “Whatever comes, I’ll handle it.”

* * *

The next morning, after an hour spent in orientation, I feel the first pangs of regret as I wrestle with an overloaded cart through the empty hallway of the Sandpiper.

The wheels squeak in protest as I maneuver around a tight corner, the pungent smell of cleaning chemicals burning my nostrils.

My arms already ache from the unfamiliar labor, and I’ve just started my first shift.

“Come on, Marilyn,” I mutter to my cart, named after the Hollywood star, because even mundane objects deserve glamour. “Work with me here because I’m not giving up just yet.”

This was my idea, after all, and I’m sure Preston and Brogan have already taken bets on how long I’ll last. A week? Two? What if they think I’ll barely make it through today?

At the first room on my list, my hand trembles as I knock. “Housekeeping,” I call out, just like in the training videos I’d watched late into the night.

No answer. I slide the keycard into the lock and swing the door open.

The room looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Towels litter the floor, empty beer cans and pizza boxes cover every surface, and the bed is a disaster zone—sheets tangled and half-hanging off the mattress, pillows strewn across the floor. The acrid smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hits me like a wall, making my eyes water.

For a moment, I just stand there, frozen.

Back home, our housekeeper Maria would have tutted disapprovingly at such a state, her expert hands making quick work of even the worst chaos. But Maria isn’t here, and I’m on my own.

I push my non-prescription glasses (part of my Theresa disguise) up the bridge of my nose.

I can do this. I have to do this.

That’s when I sense it—the weight of someone watching me. Looking behind me, I meet the dark, assessing gaze of Javier Conrad. Or simply Javi, as Preston calls him.

Instead of his usual sharp suit that he wears as Preston’s head of security, he’s dressed in the navy-blue uniform of the hotel security staff, complete with a Sandpiper logo embroidered on the breast pocket. From the tight set of his jaw, he’s not happy about the change.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as his gaze travels down my freshly starched uniform. “Did Preston and Brogan assign you as my babysitter?”

“Unfortunately,” he replies, his voice carrying that hint of something—annoyance, certainly, but also resignation—that makes my shoulders tense. “I was pulled from an executive protection detail for this assignment.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say as his gaze sweep over the disaster of the room.

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, Miss Holden,” he says, emphasizing my fake last name with a slight smirk.

I bristle, squaring my shoulders. “I can handle it,” I say. “And I don’t need a babysitter, especially one who clearly doesn’t want to be here.”

He raises an eyebrow, his dark eyes glinting with something that might be amusement beneath the obvious displeasure. “Oh, I’m not here to babysit. I’m here to ensure your safety, as per Mr. Hollister’s orders.” He pauses, looking down at his uniform with barely concealed distaste. “Though when Brogan pulled me off executive protection to babysit—” he corrects himself with exaggerated politeness, “—to provide security for a housekeeper, this isn’t exactly what I pictured for my week.”

“If it makes you feel better, I never asked them to provide me with security,” I say, taking in the way the standard-issue shirt strains across his broad shoulders, far from the tailored suits he usually wears when guarding my cousin.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Eight years as a SEAL, and now I’m guarding a hotel corridor. Brogan has an interesting sense of humor.”

I bite back a retort, turning instead to the chaos before me. The task seems even more daunting now, with Javier’s watchful gaze on my back. It’s as if he’s just waiting for me to give up.

“Well,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice, “no time like the present to get started, even with an audience.” I push my cart further into the room and begin gathering empty cans and pizza boxes into a large garbage bag. The smell makes my stomach turn, but I grit my teeth and continue.

“You know,” Javi says after a few minutes of silence, “most people would have quit by now.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say as I toss another empty beer can into the trash bag, “but I’m not ‘most people.’ I’m a Hollister, remember? We don’t give up easily.”