Chapter 6
SIX
JAVI
“Another theft report,” Roberts announces during our final security briefing for the day, his thin mouth pinched with displeasure. “Diamond earrings from room 412. Over five grand, according to the guest.”
I keep my expression neutral as the other security staff exchange glances. That makes three significant thefts this week, all from upper-floor rooms, all during housekeeping hours.
Why guests don’t store their valuables in the provided safes boggles my mind. Still, their valuables shouldn’t be disappearing no matter where they choose to set it down.
“We’re implementing additional measures,” Roberts continues, straightening his perpetually perfect tie. “Security sweeps of staff lockers, verification of all employee credentials, and rotating camera monitoring of the service elevators.”
“Any specific leads?” I ask, careful to keep my tone professionally curious rather than personally concerned.
Roberts’ gaze sharpens, landing squarely on me. “As a matter of fact, Conrad, I’m particularly interested in your new housekeeper.”
A muscle in my jaw tightens involuntarily. “My new housekeeper?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Roberts says, his voice dropping as the other security staff file out of the room. “I’ve seen you shadowing that new girl—Theresa Holden. She shows up with no prior hotel experience right before spring break, and suddenly we have valuable items disappearing?”
I meet his gaze steadily. “That’s circumstantial at best, sir.”
“Is it?” Roberts steps closer, lowering his voice further. “Because I’ve been looking into her background, and things aren’t adding up. Her references check out on paper, but when I made some calls yesterday, no one seems to remember much about her.”
Damn it. Preston’s cover story for “Theresa” was always going to be thin, but I’d hoped it would hold for three weeks.
I should report this development right away, but if I do, Preston would likely pull Teddy out at the first sign of complication.
But I can’t get Teddy’s reasons for doing this out of my mind. Sure, it would get me back to my regular detail of guarding Preston, but I don’t want Teddy’s experiment to end prematurely.
She’s worked too hard for this.
“I’ll keep a closer eye on her,” I promise, which isn’t technically a lie. I fully intend to watch Teddy even more carefully now—just not for the reasons Roberts assumes.
“See that you do,” he responds, glancing at his watch. “And Conrad? I don’t know why Hollister Security assigned you here specifically for spring break, but while you’re under my roof, you follow my protocols. Clear?”
It’s unlike me to allow an arrogant jerk like Roberts to talk to me like this, but an assignment is an assignment. “Yes, sir.”
By the time the meeting finally ends, I realize with frustration that Teddy has already left the hotel. A quick call to my backup team confirms they’ve taken over surveillance duty, but the delay grates on me. I hate delegating her security to others, especially with Roberts’ suspicions now in play.
I stop by a pharmacy on my way to her townhouse, grabbing muscle relief patches and a few other supplies. I’d noticed during the flooding incident how she winced with every movement, how she’d tried to hide grimaces of pain throughout the day. The patches are just basic first aid, I tell myself.
Nothing that crosses any professional lines.
Nothing at all.
* * *
I make it to Teddy’s townhouse before she arrives, parking across from her building and waiting with the pharmacy bag on the passenger seat. Professional protocol would have me simply observe from a distance, but there’s nothing professional about the relief I feel when her car pulls into the driveway.
I watch as she exits her vehicle, moving with careful, measured steps that telegraph her discomfort. She’s carrying a supermarket shopping bag and the stiffness in her movements confirms what I’d suspected.
“You’re in pain,” I say as I approach, unable to keep the concern from my voice.
“Hello to you too,” she replies with forced lightness. “What are you doing here? Isn’t your shift over?”
“I came to check on you.” I step closer, my professional distance slipping. “You were moving differently today. Favoring your right side. Breathing more shallowly.”
She raises an eyebrow, defensive humor in her expression. “Stalking is an interesting security technique.”
“Observation,” I correct, my jaw tightening. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’m doing my job,” she counters, straightening despite what must be significant pain. “The job I signed up for, remember?”
“A job you have no physical training for,” I say, following her to her door. “You’re going to injure yourself if you keep this pace.”
She turns to face me, keys clutched in her hand. “What exactly would you suggest, Commander Conrad? That I quit? Prove Preston and Brogan right that I can’t handle it?”
Her question hits a nerve. Over the past five days, I’ve watched her work with a determination that has contradicted my initial assessment of her character. The last thing I want now is for her to give up.
“I’m suggesting you take better care of yourself,” I say, my voice rising despite my efforts to maintain professional composure. “Ask for help when you need it. Take breaks. Use proper lifting techniques.”
“I’m fine,” she insists, the obvious lie only increasing my frustration.
“You’re not fine,” I counter, an unexpected surge of emotion breaking through my meticulously maintained control. “You can barely stand straight. Your hands are shaking from muscle fatigue. You skipped lunch to clean that flooded room on third.”
Surprise flickers across her face. “How did you know I skipped lunch?”
The question catches me off guard. How do I explain that I’ve been tracking her movements all day, far more closely than my assignment requires? That I noticed when she didn’t appear in the staff room during her scheduled break?
“Because it’s my job to know,” I say, then add more quietly, surprising myself, “Because I was worried about you.”
The admission hangs between us, crossing a line I’ve been careful to maintain with all my security assignments. Concern is professional—worry is personal.
“Why?” she challenges, stepping closer, close enough that I can smell the faint floral scent of her shampoo beneath the industrial cleaning products that cling to her uniform. “Why would you worry about a spoiled socialite playing at being a housekeeper?”
Her question exposes the prejudice in my initial assessment of her, and I find myself wanting to correct it, to acknowledge what I’ve observed these past days.
“Because I was wrong about you, okay?” The words come out more forcefully than intended. “I expected you to quit after the first day. To run back to your designer clothes and Instagram followers.” I gesture toward her, struggling to articulate the shift in my perception. “But you didn’t. You’ve worked harder than most trained staff, without complaint, even when it’s literally breaking your body.”
She seems taken aback by my honesty, her defensive posture softening.
“I’m tougher than I look,” she says, her voice quieter.
“I know that now,” I agree, matching her tone. “Which is why I’m offering help you’re too stubborn to ask for.”
She stares at me. “You’re… offering help?”
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” I mutter, thinking of my own stubbornness after my shoulder injury years earlier, how it had nearly cost me full recovery. “Even Navy SEALs. Even Hollisters.”
We stand there in the growing twilight, the tension between us shifting from confrontation to something more personal. I become acutely aware of how close we’re standing, of how her blue eyes reflect the last light of day, of how completely unprofessional my thoughts have become.
“Fine,” she concedes, unlocking her door. “What kind of help are we talking about?”
I hold up the pharmacy bag, grateful for the return to practical matters. “I brought muscle relief patches. And I know how to apply them properly. My shoulder injury in Syria taught me more about muscle recovery than I ever wanted to know.”
I rarely mention my deployments to civilians, but somehow it feels important to offer this small piece of myself, to explain why I understand what she’s experiencing.
“Syria?” she asks, curiosity softening her expression.
“Another time,” I say, unwilling to go further down that particular memory lane. “Right now, you need those patches before your muscles seize up.”
She hesitates, and I can see her weighing the implications of inviting me in. I should probably rescind the offer, maintain the professional boundary that’s already dangerously blurred. But I find myself hoping she’ll accept.
“Alright,” she says, pushing open the door. “But this officially goes beyond your security duties, Commander.”
I meet her gaze, acknowledging the shift we’re both aware of. “Consider it basic first aid.”
As I follow her inside, I’m struck by the significance of this moment. For years, I’ve maintained a careful distance from my protectees, seeing them as assignments rather than individuals. Yet in just five days, Teddy Hollister has somehow breached those defenses, making me care about more than just her physical safety.
And despite every professional instinct warning me of the complications this could create, I find myself unable—and unwilling—to step back.
The space is stunning—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of Love Beach, minimalist modern furniture in cream and taupe, artwork that probably costs more than my yearly salary. But what strikes me most is how unlived in it feels. No personal photos, no clutter of daily life. Just perfect, magazine-worthy emptiness.
Teddy leads me to the kitchen, setting her grocery bag on a marble island. “I stopped by O’Leahey’s Creamery for ice cream on the way home,” she explains, pulling out three pints. “Self-medication.”
I smile at that, a genuine smile that feels unfamiliar on my face. “Smart thinking.”
As she unpacks the rest of her purchases—a heating pad and pain relievers—I notice how she winces with each movement, trying to hide her discomfort.
“Planning a party?” I ask, nodding toward the ice cream.
A faint blush colors her cheeks. “I couldn’t decide between flavors. Rocky Road is classic, but the Salted Caramel has actual sea salt from France, and the Chocolate Fudge Brownie has these chunks of brownie that are just...” She trails off, looking embarrassed. “I stress-eat ice cream. Judge away.”
“No judgment,” I say, finding her unexpected vulnerability strangely endearing. “Everyone has their comfort food.”
She looks at me curiously. “What’s yours?”
The question catches me off guard. It’s personal, outside the parameters of our professional relationship. But then again, so is standing in her kitchen preparing to apply muscle relief patches to her back.
“My abuela’s arroz con pollo,” I admit. “Nothing fancy, but it tastes like home.”
Something softens in her expression. “That sounds nice. Having food that feels like home.”
There’s a wistfulness in her voice that seems out of place coming from someone who could order from any restaurant in the city at a moment’s notice. Before I can dwell on it, she picks up the box of muscle patches I’ve set on the counter.
“So, about these. I can probably reach most places myself, but?—”
“Where does it hurt the most?” I ask, taking the box from her.
She hesitates before pointing to her lower back. “Here. From all the bending and lifting.”
I nod, keeping my expression professionally neutral despite the intimacy of what I’m about to do. “You’ll need to...” I gesture vaguely at her shirt.
“A shower,” she says, turning away. “Just... give me a few minutes.”
She disappears down a hallway, returning fifteen minutes later wearing a tank top that leaves her shoulders and upper back exposed while providing enough coverage to maintain propriety.
“This work?” she asks, and I notice a faint flush on her cheeks.
“Perfect,” I say, focusing on reading the instructions on the patch box rather than on the smooth expanse of skin now visible to me. “These should be applied to clean, dry skin.”
She nods. “Showered and changed. In case you haven’t noticed..”
Oh, I have , I almost say out loud but I don’t. “Good.” I open the box, removing one of the large patches. “These would probably work better with some massage first, to relax the muscles before application.”
As the words emerge before I can filter them, I regret the suggestion. Too personal. Too intimate. Too far beyond the boundaries I should be maintaining.
To my surprise, Teddy doesn’t seem shocked or offended. Instead, she looks relieved. “Would you mind? Maria—our housekeeper at home—used to help when I’d get sore from tennis. But obviously she’s not here, and I don’t really want to go to some spa or call someone who...”
“I can help,” I say, cutting off her rambling. “I had some training in massage therapy during rehab for a shoulder injury. Nothing professional, but enough to know the basics.”
She looks at me with something like wonder. “Is there anything you can’t do, Javi?”
I feel a smile tugging at my lips. “I’m a terrible cook. Just ask my abuela.”
That earns me a genuine laugh—a warm, throaty sound I’ve never heard from her before. It changes her entire face, softening the elegant features into something more approachable, more real.
“The couch would probably be best,” she says, leading me to the living area where a large sectional faces the spectacular view.
I wait as she arranges herself on the couch, sitting sideways with her back to me, her long hair pulled over one shoulder. Taking a deep breath, I sit behind her, trying to maintain a professional distance despite the intimate nature of what I’m about to do.
“Tell me if anything hurts or if you want me to stop,” I say, my voice coming out lower than intended.
She nods, and I hesitate before reaching out. This crosses a line I’ve established with every client I’ve ever protected. In eight years with the Navy and months of executive protection, I’ve never allowed myself this kind of personal contact. Touch creates connection. Connection creates vulnerability. Vulnerability creates risk.
Yet here I am, about to put my hands on Teddy Hollister’s bare skin.
I exhale slowly and place my palms gently on her shoulders. The contact sends a jolt through me that I wasn’t prepared for—a current of awareness that travels straight from my fingertips to my core. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my hands, a stark contrast to the utilitarian work I’ve spent most of my adult life performing. When was the last time I touched someone this way, with care rather than purpose?
I feel Teddy tense at the initial contact, then gradually relax as I begin working on the tight muscles in her upper back. The knots I find tell the story of her last five days—the repetitive movements, the heavy lifting, the physical toll of work her body wasn’t conditioned for.
As I apply more pressure to a particularly tight spot between her shoulder blades, she lets out a small groan of relief that resonates somewhere deep in my chest. The sound is unintentionally intimate, and I find myself momentarily frozen, hyperaware of our proximity, of the trust implicit in this moment.
“That feels amazing,” she murmurs, dropping her head forward to give me better access.
The movement exposes the delicate nape of her neck, a vulnerability that strikes me as intimate. The fine hairs there catch the fading sunlight from the window, creating a golden halo effect that draws my gaze. I’ve spent days watching her from a professional distance, but this close, I notice details I’d missed before—a small freckle at the base of her neck, the exact point where blond hair becomes skin, the gentle curve where shoulder meets spine.
I realize I’ve paused too long when she glances back at me questioningly.
“Sorry,” I manage, resuming my movements with what I hope passes for professional focus. “Just assessing where to focus next.”
But the truth is more complicated. I’m fighting a battle between professional restraint and the unexpected desire to trace the elegant line of her spine with my fingertips, to explore her skin beyond the boundaries of medical necessity.
As I work my way down to her mid-back, I can feel her heartbeat through my palms—or maybe it’s my own pulse, hammering harder than it has any right to during what should be a straightforward therapeutic procedure. The rhythm seems to synchronize between us, creating a silent communication more intimate than words.
When my thumbs press into a tight knot at the base of her spine, Teddy arches, her body instinctively moving into my touch. The unconscious trust in the gesture affects me more than it should. My hands, which have disarmed bombs and neutralized threats, now seem clumsy and too large against her frame.
“Is this okay?” I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
“More than okay,” she answers, and I catch the slight breathlessness in her tone.
I tell myself it’s just the relief of pain subsiding, but a part of me—a dangerous, unprofessional part—hopes it’s something more. The realization should alarm me, but instead, it only deepens the sense of connection forming between us.
As I move to her lower back, where she indicated the worst pain was located, my hands span almost her entire width. The contrast of my sun-darkened skin against her paler tone is visually striking—a physical manifestation of our different worlds colliding. Her muscles quiver beneath my touch, a vulnerability that awakens something protective in me.
“You’re carrying a lot of tension here,” I murmur, working my thumbs in small circles on either side of her spine.
“Mmm,” is all she manages in response, her head now dropped forward in complete surrender to the massage.
The trust implied in her posture—Teddy Hollister, willingly making herself vulnerable to me—creates a tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with exertion. This is a side of her I never expected to see, one that contradicts every assumption I’d made about the spoiled socialite I thought I knew.
As I continue working through the knots in her muscles, I become increasingly aware of my own physical response—the heat building in my core, the heightened sensitivity of my fingertips, the way my breathing has deepened to match hers. There’s an intimacy to this that transcends the physical act itself, a connection forming that I’ve studiously avoided in every other professional relationship.
When I finally reach for the muscle relief patch, my fingers brush the smooth skin at the small of her back, and I feel goosebumps rise beneath my touch. Her sharp intake of breath mirrors my own reaction—a mutual acknowledgment of whatever is building between us.
I clear my throat. “I think you’re ready for the patch now.”
“Already?” The disappointment in her voice is unmistakable as I gently apply the patch to her lower back.
My fingertips linger as I smooth down the edges, as if committing to memory the curve of her spine, the warmth of her skin, the trust implied in her stillness beneath my hands.
“All done,” I say, drawing away reluctantly. “Should provide relief for about eight hours, according to the box.”
As Teddy turns to face me, the sight of her—flushed cheeks, slightly parted lips, eyes darker than before—hits me like a punch in the gut. It’s as if something fundamental has definitely shifted between us, a boundary crossed that can’t be reestablished.
I should leave. Right now. Before this gets any more complicated.
“I should get going,” I say, standing abruptly.
“Wait,” Teddy says, reaching out to catch my wrist. “At least let me thank you properly. Ice cream?” She gestures toward the kitchen. “I certainly can’t eat three pints by myself.”
I should refuse. “I don’t think?—”
“Please,” she interrupts, and there’s something in her eyes that looks almost like vulnerability. “I’m... I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this whole experience. Preston and Brogan expect me to fail, and everyone at the hotel thinks I’m someone else, and...”
She trails off, releasing my wrist. “Sorry. That’s not your problem. You’ve already gone above and beyond your assignment.”
Something in her words strikes a chord in me and against all better judgment, I sit back down.
“Which flavor do you recommend?” I ask.
The smile that lights up her face is worth every professional boundary I’m crossing. “Rocky Road. Definitely Rocky Road.”
She fetches two spoons and the ice cream, settling back onto the couch beside me, closer than before. As she hands me a spoon, our fingers brush, and I tell myself to focus on the ice cream in front of me.
“So,” she says, digging her spoon into her tub of salted caramel ice cream, “what’s your professional assessment? Am I the worst Hollister assignment you’ve ever had?”
“Not even close,” I answer as she takes a bite of ice cream, a small sound of pleasure escaping her lips. “Preston once made me accompany him to a three-day meditation retreat where no one was allowed to speak. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to provide security when you can’t talk?”
She laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. “That sounds like Preston. All business until he decides to ‘find his center’ or whatever the trend of the month is.”
I take a bite of the ice cream, surprised by how good it is—rich chocolate with marshmallow swirls and chunks of almond. “This is excellent,” I admit. “Though I should reimburse you for half a pint of premium ice cream on a housekeeper’s salary.”
Teddy waves dismissively. “Consider it payment for the massage.”
“That’s hardly equivalent,” I argue, taking another spoonful. “This probably cost what, ten dollars? That massage would run you at least a hundred at a spa.”
She raises an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Fine. You can pay me the difference with a kiss.”
The spoon freezes halfway to my mouth as I process her words. She’s joking—she must be—but the look in her eyes suggests something else entirely.
“That would be inappropriate,” I say, my gaze dropping to her lips of its own accord.
“More inappropriate than giving me a back massage in my townhouse while I’m undercover as a housekeeper?” she challenges, setting aside her spoon and ice cream. “I’d say we left ‘appropriate’ behind about an hour ago, Javi.”
She has a point. Still, I hesitate, acutely aware of all the reasons this is a bad idea. She’s the cousin of my employer. My current assignment.
A Hollister.
“Teddy...” I begin, not even sure what I’m going to say as I set down my ice cream and spoon.
“Forget it,” she says quickly, her cheeks flushing. “Bad joke. I’m just tired and sore and apparently have no filter after manual labor and magical massages.”
But I don’t want to forget it. Despite every rational argument, every professional boundary, every warning bell going off in my head, I find myself leaning toward her.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice lower than intended. “Because once we cross this line...”
Her eyes meet mine, her expression serious. “I’ve spent the last year trying to be someone I’m not—a social media star, a party girl, whatever I thought would make people like me. But they weren’t really my friends. They just wanted to be seen with a Hollister, to get into exclusive clubs, to have their tabs covered.” She takes a deep breath. “The last five days working at The Sandpiper, I’ve felt more real, more myself, than I have in ages. And you’re the only person who’s seen both versions of me and still looks at me like... like I’m worth something.”
Her vulnerability is disarming, her honesty unexpected. In this moment, she’s not Teddy Hollister, socialite, or Theresa Holden, housekeeper. She’s just a woman looking at me with hope and uncertainty in her eyes.
“You are worth something,” I say, my throat tightening. “More than you know.”
And then I’m closing the distance between us, my hand coming up to cup her cheek as my lips meet hers. The kiss begins softly, a gentle brush, holding back just enough to give her a chance to stop me, to preserve what’s left of our carefully constructed boundaries.
I half expect her to pull away, to laugh it off as another ill-timed joke. But then she makes a soft sound of approval, a signal, and leans into me, erasing the last trace of space between us.
Her response is all the encouragement I need, and all the restraint I’ve been clinging to evaporates in an instant.
The kiss deepens, gaining urgency and heat as I lose myself in the moment, in her. Her hands move up to my shoulders, drawing me even closer, as mine thread into her hair, tangling in soft strands.
She tastes of chocolate and salt and something else that is uniquely her—a taste that is somehow both unexpected and exactly what I’ve been craving without even knowing it.
It’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and all the tension that has been building and simmering between us over the last five days seems to surge through me, pouring into this moment, this connection.
Teddy’s fingers tighten on me as if she’s afraid I might disappear, and my own grip mirrors hers, determined and possessive, wanting to hold on to this—to her—for as long as I can.
When we finally break apart, both breathing harder, I rest my forehead against hers. “That was...”
“Worth way more than half a pint of Rocky Road,” she finishes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
I chuckle, the tension broken. “Definitely.”
As she settles against me, I wrap an arm around her shoulders, marveling at how right this feels despite all the reasons it shouldn’t. The ice cream sits forgotten on the coffee table as we watch the sun setting over Love Beach through her panoramic windows, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink.
This complicates everything—my assignment, her experiment, our futures. There will be consequences to face, professional and personal.
But with Teddy warm against my side and the memory of her kiss still on my lips, I’ll deal with those consequences tomorrow.
Right now, there’s only this moment.
The rest can wait.