Chapter 41
KATIE
Emory
So you and Tristan?
Sienna
Unless there are other hot bodyguards with red hair on his payroll?
Emory
Should we be offended that we didn’t hear about this first?
Sienna
I think we should be.
On Sunday, I wake up famous. Or infamous.
Despite his words on the dock, I haven’t seen Tristan for two days and it feels like I did ruin everything. I stopped by for our morning run on Saturday and he was out of the house. That afternoon I saw him walking to the stillhouse and he gave me a wave and a nod, but nothing more.
There’s a permanent, hollow ache inside my stomach, and I vow over and over to never be this stupid ever again, if only things can go back to the way they were.
I’m pouring a second coffee and tugging on a tank top Sunday morning when I see the messages.
Photos. I nearly choke on the scalding liquid when I see the video.
Tristan has me caged against the wall in the shadows of the bar.
The camerawork is horror-movie shaky, but the zoom function is good enough to make out our expressions.
We are lost in each other.
My stomach flips, and I watch the rest of the video with my mouth ajar and coffee held in the air.
I didn’t realize how long people were watching us.
It’s a full five seconds with Tristan kneeling at my feet.
I’m smiling like I’m dazed. My hands are toying with his hair. He looks up at me as he writes.
I remember that exact second. When our gazes connected and heat burst like a sun flare inside me.
I take another scalding gulp of coffee and tug my shirt down.
Katie, you fool.
I can’t deal with the consequences of this right now. I’m late to the polo field and I have a whole day of watching him flirt to get through. And none of it matters, anyway, because it’s not happening again and nothing will come of this, and god, why does that hurt so much?
I like the guy in that video. I like who I am with him and I like how he makes me feel. I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale through my nose. I get five seconds like this. Five seconds of remembering how it felt to be the center of Tristan’s world.
And then I open my eyes, slide my gun into a holster, and resolve not to think about Tristan Prince for the rest of the day.
Not thinking about Tristan is impossible.
I swear his name is on the wind. I watch the spouse candidates trot across the grass from my place on the sidelines of the polo field and I hear them saying it.
Boots gleam in the morning sun. Expensive riding clothes make a drab rainbow of white, taupe, and navy.
There are five remaining. Léa, Claire, Nadia, Amber, and Vanessa.
Alexis humphs from where she watches with folded arms. “I should have spit in their coffee,” she grumbles.
I slide her an amused look from where I’m checking my first aid kit. I’m doing double duty today. Bodyguard-medic. I have basic medical skills, and based on last year’s polo match, I’d do well to make sure I have extra bandages and slings.
“They seem fine.”
Fine is a mild word for the churning in my stomach and the heaviness in my chest. They aren’t fine. They’re his future. Mine too.
“We should try to figure out which one is least likely to cause trouble,” I add.
Alexis snorts and grabs one of the to-go cups of coffee from the catering table. She thrusts it at me. “Least likely to enjoy imported fruit and throw massive parties.”
I take the coffee and grin. “Least likely to bring political figures to the property.”
A small twitch of her lips. “Least likely to order breakfast before five a.m.”
“Least likely to grab my gun and ask to have a go.”
Nour laughs from where she’s perched on the top of the fence. “Least likely to puke in one of the armored SUVs.”
“Least likely to fire me.”
Nour and Alexis suck in identical breaths.
“The video isn’t that bad,” Alexis says staunchly. Alexis has the social skills of a newly woken bear, and I don’t believe her.
Nour, on the other hand? Nour has seen it all. She makes a humming noise in her throat and leans back on her hands.
“Out with it,” I grumble. “I know I’m not supposed to be kissing him. I know it’s unethical. It won’t happen again. And I’ll make sure his wife knows that.”
She snorts. “I think he’s going to want it to happen again.”
“It’s not like that.”
Alexis laughs. “It definitely looked like that.”
Nour leans over to flick me in the shoulder. “He likes you.”
As if summoned by the heavens, Tristan exits the trees on his chestnut polo pony.
“Good morning,” he calls.
All the women on the polo field stop and watch.
Tristan’s looking straight at me as he rides forward, and my stomach tries to climb up my throat.
He’s larger than life on a polo pony and he looks like a Ralph Lauren ad in his hunter-green polo shirt and white breeches.
Even the brown boots look good, and damn him, why is it sexual?
“Told you,” Nour whispers.
Alexis elbows me in the back. “Stand up straight.”
“Why are you two so invested in this?”
Nour shrugs. “Hopeless romantic.”
Alexis is smiling, which I’ve only seen happen four times in my life.
It’s alarming. “Because I’d rather see one of us get the guy than one of them.
” She tips her head to the thems, all of whom are riding forward, each nudging their horse to go faster in an effort to get ahead, but none of them wanting to make it obvious.
“Not happening.”
There’s a little flutter and dip inside me that says I might like for it to happen. I scowl at them, then nod to Tristan, who dips in his chin in response.
“See,” I hiss. “Everything is normal.”
Everything is not normal. Normal would be Tristan jumping off the pony to give me a horse-scented hug, mashing my face into his chest and trying to rub hay in my hair.
Normal would be him forcing me to pet one of the animals because he knows I’m terrified of them.
This is not normal. I broke normal on Friday night because even after twenty-six years, I still haven’t learned my lesson about clinging to people, and now I have the wounds to prove it.
I watch Léa lean over and grasp Tristan’s hand. He smiles. It makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. I swear someone sighs.
Alexis mutters a curse under her breath. “If only he didn’t look like that.”
Yeah. If only.
The friendly match starts, just three on three, and I force myself to watch clinically.
I better get used to this, because this is the new normal.
“Do you have any tips?”
I whirl. Léa is behind me, on her white pony, her blond hair gleaming under a black helmet.
She even has a pretty purple bow on the end of her braid.
I met her on one of Tristan’s dates and we immediately bonded over how annoying the paparazzi are.
I’m remembering now that she went on a real date with Tristan years ago.
They did a post-college summer program together in Paris, and I spent hours painstakingly translating their recent messages in Google translate, swearing if I ever had the chance to learn a second language, I’d take it.
“Tips?”
She nods and holds her hand out for a water, which Alexis passes her without comment, her lips pressed in a flat line. I notice that it’s one of the ones that’s been sitting in the sun. Alexis is a firm believer in petty revenge.
“For getting his attention.” Léa wipes her mouth and tosses the bottle onto the ground. We all watch it thunk against the grass. “You seem to have captured it. The internet is calling you Hot Bodyguard. Should I dye my hair?”
My pulse is pounding so fast that it must be visible in my neck.
This is my nightmare. Beyond just the video and all the thousands of comments and the media speculation that’s been pinging around all day.
Beyond all of that is the scrutiny from people in Tristan’s social circle.
I’ve watched his friends and admirers on the security cameras, but having their hawklike gazes on me is enough to make my whole body flush.
I want to laugh. Or cry. Okay, probably cry.
“You have nice hair,” I say. “Don’t dye it. Just be yourself.”
She tips her head, eyeing my hair. I briefly wonder if she might cut my hair off and make it into a wig. I thought she liked me. I thought—I chance a glance at Tristan—I thought we could be friends one day, or allies. She seems most likely to win him.
I’m supposed to take a bullet for her.
“I want to know what you think he sees in you, specifically.”
“I do too,” another woman chimes in from atop her pony. Vanessa. She’s a redhead too. “I mean, I have red hair and he’s never looked at me the way he looked at you in that video.”
I look to Tristan again, hoping he’ll come over and interrupt this. He’s always so good at knowing when I need backup, but he’s lost in conversation with Amber, chuckling at something she’s said. A fist seems to tighten around my heart.
I might have started us on the path to ruination, but it takes two to break a friendship. He hasn’t texted. He hasn’t met me for a run. He’s barely even looked at me.
My hands are shaking and I tuck them into my back pockets, hoping I look nonchalant, like the Hot Bodyguard they claim I am instead of a weirdo who never learned how to handle herself in big groups.
“He likes humor,” I say, my voice halting.
“He likes people who are a little bit weird. He really likes science and interesting facts about the world. Documentaries. Sailing. He likes dogs even though he doesn’t have one.
He doesn’t sleep very well because he’s always working at night, but don’t worry, it’s not in an annoying way, more like a mad-scientist kind of way.
He’s really smart. Genius-level, actually.
He’s only down two chess games to me. Two seventy to two seventy-two.
He likes hugs. Way more than most people.
He gives good ones.” I’m blabbering now, but I can’t stop.
“Um, custom t-shirts with jokes on them and new foods. He won’t put whiskey in cocktails, so don’t do that.
Running, swimming, and sparring. He’s really active.
He’ll talk your ear off while running, though, so be ready and make sure you’re not jogging too fast. I try to keep it at an eight-minute-mile pace unless I’m trying to beat him.
He really likes to laugh, and he likes people who are confident, and he’s a good dancer.
Really good, actually. The best.” The final word croaks out of me, and the women stare at me with stunned expressions.
“Are you in love with him?”
The question makes me blink.
It comes from Léa, but Vanessa looks just as interested. It’s matter of fact, but it sets my face on fire.
“It’s not like that,” I say hurriedly. “The video—it was just—it’s not like that.”
Vanessa nods. “I’m not interested in him like that. I just want the funding he promised for the research I’m doing on breast cancer. So if you want to carry on, that’s fine. If it’s me.”
I choke on air. “Thank you. It won’t, um, be a problem.”
Tristan’s looking now. I see his eyes scanning me and him turning his horse. My stomach churns in response.
“He’s looking for you guys.”
They both turn, blocking me with their horses, and I whirl.
I have to leave. I thought I could do this, but I definitely, one hundred percent cannot.
My elbow scrapes across the stone wall at the edge of the field, the pain shocking a yelp from my throat.
Fuck. My eyes are watering. I need a band-aid.
I have one in the first aid kit. It’s—where is it?
Nour leaps off the fence when she sees my face. “Katie?”
I press my fingers to my pulse. It’s way too fast. “I need a band-aid.”
Her hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Katie. Look at me.”
I look. Her face is soft, like an older sister’s or a mom’s. I’m going to lose it, and I don’t want to lose it right here in front of them.
“Breathe, sweetie.”
“Don’t call me that. Nour, please.” My lower lip is trembling.
“Breathe,” she repeats. “I’m going to get you a band-aid.”
I mean to nod, or say thank you, or maybe brush her off and tell her that I’ll be fine, because I’m always fine. I’m the fine one. I’ve never met an obstacle I couldn’t handle on my own, and I don’t need anyone to help me.
But what comes out is “Nour, I think I need to leave.”