Chapter 2
TWO
JAVIER “JAVI” CONRAD
When Brogan told me my new assignment was to keep an eye on his socialite cousin, I thought he was joking. Then I realized my former commanding officer was dead serious.
“You’re pulling me off Preston’s security detail to babysit Teddy?” I’d asked, not bothering to hide my disbelief. “That’s not what I signed up for.”
Brogan had leveled me with the same look he used to give in the field when I questioned an order. “It’s temporary. Three weeks max.”
“Three weeks in hotel security?” I’d groaned, eyeing the standard-issue uniform with distaste. After eight years of Naval Special Warfare and executive protection for one of Love Beach’s most influential businessmen, this felt like a serious demotion.
“Unfortunately, her timing’s terrible,” Brogan had said. “Spring break at our hotels can get rowdy, especially at The Sandpiper. That’s where you come in. I need someone I trust watching her back.”
“As what? Her bodyguard?”
“Not exactly,” he replied. “I’ve added you on as hotel security.”
Great. Just great.
The Hollister chain of five-star hotels spans the world, with its crown jewel right on the Love Beach boardwalk. But The Sandpiper is their budget offering—the favorite haunt of broke college kids on spring break.
Not exactly five-star.
“It’s her idea,” Preston had said during my briefing. “We’re giving her three days before she changes her mind, so the assignment should be quick.”
Quick, my ass.
From the look of grim determination on Teddy’s face on her first day, I doubt she’ll be quitting any time soon. She can hardly push the overloaded laundry cart down the hall, the metal frame groaning in protest as I watch from my position near the stairwell. Her slender arms strain against the weight, a slight grimace crossing her face as she adjusts her grip.
I’ve known of Teddy for eight months now, ever since Brogan convinced me to join Hollister Security. I’ve been in the background during her many visits to Preston’s office, watching her flutter in with some crisis that her cousins inevitably had to clean up.
“Commander Conrad, so serious!” she’d chirped the first time we met, her smile bright but never quite reaching her eyes as Preston lectured her about overcharging hotel expenses. “Do they teach you guys to frown like that in SEAL training, or is it a special talent?”
Even as Preston explained the severity of her financial situation, she’d maintained that breezy persona, cracking jokes and treating everything like a minor inconvenience. I’d filed her away as just another privileged socialite, coasting on family connections without appreciation for the opportunities she’d been given. The fact that she’s now attempting to learn housekeeping feels like just another performance for attention.
I tug at the collar of my hotel security uniform, the fabric rough against my neck compared to the custom shirts I’m used to. At least I’d convinced them to let me carry my standard sidearm instead of the flashlight and radio most hotel security carried. Small consolation for being demoted to glorified babysitting.
As I move to begin my second security sweep of the floor, I overhear Mark Roberts speaking in hushed tones around the corner.
“—need to be more careful about who has access,” Roberts says, his voice low but tense. “The complaints are increasing.”
“My staff are trustworthy,” counters Carmen, the head of housekeeping. “If items are missing?—”
They spot me and fall silent, Roberts forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Conrad. Settling in?” His gaze flicks to the security badge on my chest. “Remember, standard patrols only. No need to disrupt our... operational flow.”
I nod tersely, filing away the exchange for later consideration. Something about Roberts has felt off since I arrived.
Turning down the next corridor, I spot Teddy again. The cart has apparently won their battle, wedged awkwardly against a doorframe as she attempts to maneuver it through. Her face is flushed with frustration and exertion, a far cry from the polished Instagram photos I’ve seen of her toasting with champagne at charity galas.
The woman struggling with that cart looks nothing like the Teddy Hollister I thought I knew—the one whose breezy “Don’t worry, be happy!” philosophy had grated on my nerves during every security briefing. This woman looks... determined.
Before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward her. “Let me help you with that,” I say, reaching for the cart.
The moment our hands brush as we both grab the handle, a jolt of electricity courses through me. Teddy’s eyes widen and for a moment, we’re frozen, our fingers millimeters apart on the cool metal.
“Static electricity,” I grumble as she nods, a faint flush coloring her cheeks.
“Right. Static,” she whispers. “But thanks.”
We stand there for a heartbeat longer, the air between us thick with a tension I can’t quite place as I catch a whiff of her perfume—something light and floral—mingling with the industrial odor from the laundry cart.
Clearing my throat, I break the spell. “Let me take this.” I gently nudge her hands away as Teddy hesitates, her brow furrowing.
For a moment, I think she might refuse my help—after all, it isn’t part of my job description—but then she steps back with a small nod.
“Thanks.”
I push the cart into the laundry room where employees sort linens, the hum of industrial machines filling the air. Teddy follows close behind, the harsh fluorescent lights casting shadows under her eyes, accentuating the dark circles from what must be several nights of insufficient sleep.
What’s most surprising is how different she looks. The social media darling with perfect makeup and designer clothes is gone. This Teddy—or Theresa—wears no makeup, has her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, and carries herself differently, with slightly hunched shoulders as if trying to make herself smaller. The cheap glasses she wears as part of her disguise transform her face.
Her transformation is so effective that not a single employee has connected her to the Hollister family. Instead, they see only Theresa Holden, the inexperienced new hire who got stuck with the worst shifts during spring break. That’s why they’ve been loading her up with the most difficult tasks—not because they know who she is, but because she’s the newest and lowest in the housekeeping hierarchy.
And yet she’s never complained, not once. Just works through whatever they throw at her with quiet determination. Admirable, really, even if I’m not convinced it will last.
“What’s next on the list?” I ask, trying to maintain a professional tone despite the way my skin still tingles from our brief contact earlier.
Teddy pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket, squinting at the scrawled handwriting. “Lunch.”
“Lunch,” I echo, suddenly aware of the gnawing emptiness in my own stomach. “I’ll escort you.”
Teddy hesitates, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “I brought my lunch and thought I’d sit outside for a while. Care to join me? I’ll share my sandwich with you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say gruffly, annoyed at myself for how tempted I am by the offer. My job is to keep an eye on her, not become her lunch buddy.
“But I want to,” she says, pulling a paper bag from her locker. “Besides, I made this sandwich myself and I need an honest opinion. Maria—our housekeeper—she taught me her secret recipe for pan con lechón.”
I pause, my interest reluctantly piqued. Pan con lechón isn’t just any sandwich—it’s a slice of home, of Sunday afternoons at my abuela’s house, the air heavy with the scent of slow-roasted pork and fresh bread.
“You made it yourself?” I can’t keep the skepticism from my voice. The idea of Teddy Hollister in a kitchen, actually cooking, seems as likely as me taking up competitive ballroom dancing.
“With my own two hands,” she declares proudly, holding up her palms as evidence. I notice with surprise that they’re already showing signs of calluses—real ones, not the manicured hands I’d expected. “Maria always said I had potential.”
Against my better judgment, I find myself following her out of the service entrance. We grab a couple of sodas and bags of chips from the vending machine before heading outside. The Sandpiper sits at the quieter end of Love Beach, away from the spring break chaos of the main strip. Here, the beach curves gently around a natural cove, the sand darker and coarser than the manicured stretches near the luxury hotels.
We settle on a weathered picnic table behind the hotel, partially hidden by towering sea oats that rustle in the salt breeze. The view here is different from what tourists expect—no neon signs or crowded boardwalk, just the raw beauty of the coastline stretching north toward the wildlife preserve.
As Teddy unwraps the sandwich with surprising care, the aroma hits me—garlic, citrus, and the unmistakable richness of properly marinated pork. She’s even toasted the Cuban bread to the perfect crispness.
“The trick,” she says, cutting it diagonally with practiced precision, “is soaking the pork in bitter orange juice overnight. Maria says that’s what makes it special.” As she offers me half, I notice a small smear of mojo sauce on her wrist, a decidedly un-socialite-like detail that somehow makes her seem more real.
I try to maintain my professional distance, but something about this moment—the ocean breeze, the authentic food, the hidden corner of the beach that tourists never see—makes it difficult to remember why I’m supposed to be keeping my guard up.
“Everyone thinks Love Beach is just parties and tourists, but up here...” She gestures at the way the dunes roll naturally into the maritime forest. “This feels more honest somehow.”
I take a bite of the sandwich, and damn if it isn’t good—not perfect, maybe a touch too much garlic—but made with genuine care and attention to detail. Just like how she’s approached this job, I realize with surprising clarity.
“Well?” she asks, watching my face with an eagerness that seems at odds with the woman I thought I knew.
“It’s...” I search for words that won’t give too much away, that won’t reveal how unexpectedly impressed I am—both by the sandwich and by her. “It’s actually decent. The pork is tender.”
As her smile widens, something shifts in my chest—a dangerous loosening of the professional distance I’ve tried to maintain. Because maybe, just maybe, I’ve been wrong about Theodora Hollister all along.
“Decent?” She laughs, the sound carrying on the breeze. “From you, that’s practically a five-star review.”
A comfortable silence settles between us as we eat, broken only by the distant cry of seabirds and the rhythmic pulse of waves against the shore. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the sand, turning the ocean into a sheet of hammered gold.
From here, we can see past the tourist facades to Love Beach’s true character—the weathered fishing pier where locals gather at dawn, the cluster of family-owned restaurants that have survived decades of hurricanes and changing times.
“You know,” Teddy says suddenly, brushing crumbs from her uniform, “I used to think this end of the beach was boring whenever I’d stay here during the summers. Too quiet, too far from everything.” She gestures toward the distant lights of the main strip, where music already pulses from beachfront bars. “Funny how perspective changes things.”
I study her profile, noting how different she looks from the glossy photos I’ve seen in local magazines. There’s something compelling about this version of Teddy, something genuine that makes it harder to maintain my professional detachment.
“Why are you really doing this?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
She turns to face me, and for a moment, I glimpse vulnerability beneath her sunny exterior. “Would you believe me if I said I’m tired of being the family disappointment?”
“You’re not—” I start, but she waves me off.
“Please. I know what people think of me. Poor little rich girl, trading on her family name.” Her fingers trace patterns in the condensation on her water bottle. “But that’s not who I want to be anymore. I want to understand this business from the ground up, to earn my place in it.”
“But why housekeeping?” I press, genuinely curious now.
“My mother,” she continues, “she always took the easy way out. Relied on family money, family connections. Look where that got her.” She turns to me, her eyes holding mine with unexpected intensity. “I won’t make the same mistakes.”
I find myself wanting to believe her, despite years of professional cynicism. “Three weeks isn’t a long time to learn an entire business.”
“No, but it’s a start,” she agrees, a determined set to her jaw. “I also want to make my aunt Elaine proud. Preston and Brogan, too. I always wished they were my brothers. I loved coming here in the summers even if they probably thought of me as just their annoying cousin.”
“I doubt they think that,” I say, surprised by my own desire to reassure her.
Teddy’s eyes widen at my words, a flicker of hope crossing her face before she schools her expression. “Maybe,” she says, her gaze drifting back to the ocean. “But I still have a lot to prove.”
The wind picks up, sending loose strands of her hair dancing around her face. Without thinking, I reach out to brush one away from her cheek. The moment my fingers graze her skin, that same electric awareness from earlier crackles between us. Teddy’s breath catches, and I pull back, reminding myself of professional boundaries that I’ve just carelessly crossed.
“Must be static electricity,” she murmurs. “Again.”
I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure and wondering what the hell has gotten into me. “We should head back. Your break’s almost over.”
“You’re so right. I definitely can’t be late on my first day.” Gathering the remnants of our lunch, Teddy stands just as a sudden gust of wind catches her off balance. I reach out instinctively, steadying her with a hand on her elbow. The contact, brief as it is, sends another jolt through me—one that has nothing to do with static and everything to do with the unexpected warmth of her skin beneath my palm.
“Thanks,” she says, her eyes meeting mine. For a moment, neither of us moves. As the wind whips her hair around her face, I’m struck by a sudden, irrational urge to tuck it behind her ear again. To let my fingers linger against her skin.
But I drop my hand abruptly and take a step back. “We should go,” I repeat, more firmly this time, as much to myself as to her.
Teddy nods, her expression unreadable as she gathers the last of our lunch debris. We walk back toward the hotel in silence, the only sound the crunch of sand beneath our feet and the distant laughter of beachgoers.
As we approach the service entrance, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway seem to wash away the golden glow that had surrounded us moments before. Teddy’s shoulders straighten, her chin lifting as she slips back into her role as Theresa the housekeeper.
“Back to work,” she says with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her blue eyes. “Thanks for joining me, Javi.”
I nod, suddenly uncomfortable with the casual use of my nickname. “You’re welcome.”
As Teddy disappears down the hallway, I lean against the wall, trying to regain my composure and my professional distance, wondering what the hell just happened out there. How the hell did Teddy Hollister manage to slip past defenses gleaned from years that have withstood far greater threats?
Worse still, I’m not entirely sure I want to reinforce them.