Chapter 19 Kat
KAT
Despite talking with Bailey and then getting myself off not once but twice, I still didn’t sleep well. Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with hot, sexy fantasies involving my bodyguard down the hall—that would have at least been worth it.
But no.
I’d been plagued by an attack of impostor syndrome—a wave of self-doubt consuming my conscious thought. In a moment of weakness, I logged into my social media accounts and nearly cried.
All my happiness from earlier in the day was gone in an instant, replaced with all the messages and posts meant to tear me down.
Who does she think she is that she needs a bodyguard?
#Entitled
Like anyone cares just because she’s Colt Harrington’s sister?
Must be nice to just hire some guy to follow you around and hold your purse…
She’s so fake.
I know it shouldn’t matter, but they’d only gotten worse. Strangers I could handle, but peers chiming in to say that it was overkill to hire security instead of offering support had my heart sinking like a bowling ball.
Hazel hadn’t responded. She rarely engaged with anything that didn’t directly concern her. But her aunt, Amelia, had replied something like I’m sure she has her reasons on more than a few comments. But that didn’t make me feel better either.
It felt placating and that felt worse than all the rest.
Long before I started making a name for myself writing, my brother was making a name for himself on the national sports stage.
So much of my life required me to be completely desensitized to people who thought they had a right to me through him. My outfits, hairstyle, food choices, and a myriad of other completely mundane things became fit for public consumption.
And then my own career took off and it got worse. I thought I’d be used to the negative attention, but it still stings.
The idea that it’s just business might work for some people but not for me.
I want people to like me.
And I want them to like my writing both as Kat Harrington and Sloane Daniels, even if they don’t know I’m the latter.
I hate that I have to hide. I hate that I can’t just step out into the world as my badass alter ego—writer of sexy, dirty, keep you on the edge of your seat romance.
Annoyed, I throw my hair up into a messy bun and leave the safety of my bedroom. It’s Friday morning, and Bailey’s suggestion of relaxing today isn’t going to happen.
I’m too keyed up, and unfortunately for Tom, he’s about to get the brunt of it for the sheer fact that he’s here.
And I didn’t ask him to be.
He’s a distraction and I can’t afford any distractions right now.
So really, I just need to figure out how to get rid of him.
Easier said than done.
But I have to try; I can’t live like this.
The roller coaster of emotions is too much.
I feel trapped and uneasy because even though he’s courteous, he’s commandeered the kitchen table and I can see pieces of my life in the pages in front of him.
I feel vulnerable and exposed, but later when he cooks dinner, I’ll be fine because we’ll just be two people existing in my house.
It’s exhausting.
And I need space.
It doesn’t matter how well he can cook, I need him out of here.
“It’s been a full week, Mr. Oakden. One whole week,” I announce as I enter the kitchen with a flourish. “And nothing has happened.” His eye twitch is immediate, and something about that lights me up inside.
If I have to be miserable, I should at least get to have fun with it.
His exhale is heavy as he turns his focus to me. “What can I do to get you to stop calling me Mr. Oakden?”
“You can vacate my guest room.”
“Not happening.”
“Please?” I ask with a level of hope I don’t actually feel. “I’ll get you a hotel room.”
“No.”
“But why? Why do you have to be here? Can’t I just give you an itinerary and you can escort me around when it’s absolutely necessary?”
“Did something happen?” he asks, avoiding my questions as he studies my face. But he won’t find anything there because there’s nothing to see. I just need him gone. I need him out of my house so I can breathe.
Mostly.
“No, and that’s the point, right? I can’t concentrate with you here. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin today, and I know it’s nerves but tomorrow is a big deal for me.”
Plus all the people saying I’m ridiculous for thinking I’m important enough to have a bodyguard.
“I know it’s a big deal.” Leaning back in his chair, he holds his hands out, palms up. “I thought you said you liked having me with you at the schools.” There’s levity in his tone but I ignore it.
“The school events were fine and yes it was nice not to be by myself, but tomorrow is different. I can’t bring a team to the bookstore and have all of you lurking around.”
“We don’t lurk and we’re great with kids if we have to interact with anyone at all. Well, I don’t know about Grimm, but just in case, he’ll be on the perimeter. Plus, the store already knows we’re coming.”
“What?!” I cry as if this is shocking news. Of course he would have called the store to make arrangements, but it’s too much. “I don’t want to be portrayed like I’m some kind of diva. It’s my reputation and my job and—”
“And your safety and right now my need to protect you exceeds your desire to be rid of us and me.” With a heavy exhale, he leans his forearms on the table. “Are you concerned with the social media trolls?”
The word trolls sounds weird falling from his lips.
Unnatural.
I wonder if he’s familiar with that phrase or if it’s something his nephew had to teach him. Regardless, he’s right, and I feel my cheeks heat at my insecurity being put on display.
My confidence is bruised.
Battered.
I remember a time when I was the confident badass Bailey refers to when she makes me repeat the sentiment. But I haven’t been that woman in a long time, and even when there’s pockets of success, I feel twice as tired after the fact.
Like pretending to be confident drains me more than actually being confident.
And maybe it does.
When I don’t respond, he picks up his phone and taps away before handing it to me.
“Here.”
Cautiously taking it from him, I sigh as I scan the messages, feeling both better and worse than I did when I picked this fight with him.
ROYCE: How’s her mood?
TOM: Quiet so far this morning
ROYCE: I’m trying to trace back through the comments on social media to see where they originated from
ROYCE: You’re identified in several posts—she’s targeted for having or thinking she needs a bodyguard
TOM: She does need one
ROYCE: We know that, but the world doesn’t
ROYCE: Just be extra kind—she’s probably upset even if she doesn’t want to talk about it
TOM: I’m always nice
ROYCE: Professional isn’t nice. Be nice nice.
The last one makes me smile as I hand his phone back to him. “Thanks.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he tells me, his tone soft but firm as I drop my head back and look up at the ceiling.
“I know. But there are people out there that actually need you…people who are in real danger.” I swallow hard, trying to push back the layer of guilt as I meet his gaze.
“You are in real danger.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do.”
“But nothing has happened since the fire. Maybe it’s all just a misunderstanding.”
“Kat.”
“Fine,” I relent, dropping into the chair across from him.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’m bored, anxious, and I just want my life back.”
“And?”
“And I need something to do with all this nervous energy. Normally, I’d head down to the coffee shop for a change of scenery or take a walk and maybe try and dictate part of my book, but right now I’d settle for grocery shopping, getting my oil changed, or even a root canal.
Just something to take my mind off things. ”
“If you want me out of your hair then I have to get through all these files so I can figure out who’s doing this to you. Security work isn’t as glamorous as they make it out to be.”
“It’s definitely a lot sexier in books,” I agree, reluctantly starting to stand, knowing I have to go occupy myself elsewhere.
“Look, I know this is a lot for you and while what I’m doing is important, I can spare ten minutes.”
“Really?” I ask, lowering myself back down as he nods.
Wow.
Okay, what do I want to know?
The contemplation gives me a chance to look at him for a second, my mouth watering at the way his shirt is stretched so tightly over his arms and chest. Thoughts from the other night come rushing back, and I have to blink hard to refocus.
Because the last thing I need is to accidentally tell him I need just one really good, rearrange my organs and forget my own name, orgasm. Writing about sex is fun but God, I miss it.
Alas.
“Have you ever been someone’s bodyguard?”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
“No.”
“What made you agree to be mine?”
“Because I was asked.”
“That’s all it takes?”
“There was a lot of asking.”
“What do you usually do?”
“Security,” he offers. But when he doesn’t say anything else, I bat my eyelashes until he adds, “Security isn’t just one thing.
There are investigations, events that require contingency plans, we dig into people and corporations related to the business, and evaluate additional resources that may be required. ”
“Have you ever crossed the line with someone you were protecting?”
“No.”
“Ever tempted?” I grin.
“No, that’s what makes me good at my job.”
Such a letdown.
Leaning heavily back against the chair, he pinches the bridge of his nose, his obvious annoyance at having to be extra nice to me brightening my mood considerably.
“That’s so boring.”
“This isn’t like one of the stories you write about. This is real life where people can die because they’re involved. Being involved makes you complacent and complacency kills.”
“What do you know about my writing?” I ask, skipping over all the important pieces of that statement.
“It’s good.”
“You’ve read my books?” I ask, surprised and needing the confirmation that’s what he’s implying.
“I can’t do my job unless I know you, and in your particular case, that includes your books.”
“Huh.”
The exhale he releases is annoyed, the sound exaggerated and rude, but I don’t care about that. Tom Oakden has read my books.
And he thinks they’re good.
So, despite the way he’s scowling at me, I’m taking the win.
“Anything else?”
“I have a lot more questions.”
“Anything relevant?”
“Probably not,” I admit.
“How can we move this along then so we both can get back to work? You’re on deadline still.”
“Rude.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Deciding to push my luck, I square my shoulders and ask, “Can I ask Hazel to meet me for coffee this afternoon?” She’s the first person that comes to mind on such short notice.
“When?”
Surprised, I click the screen on my phone until it illuminates with the time. “In a few hours?”
“Yes, but I need you to find something to do until then.”
“Really?”
“Really what?”
“You’re going to let me go?”
“With me, yes. You’re not on house arrest because I think it’s fun. I’m here to keep you safe, and me being here does not negate the fact that you deserve a normal life.”
“Thanks,” I tell him honestly, my cheeks heating not because I’m embarrassed but because I appreciate the kindness, even if he was told to be that way.
But even without that, I know he’s not the bad guy
Blinking back tears, I stand and move toward the stairs.
“Kat,” he says, his voice gentle as I stop and look at him over my shoulder, “soon this will all be a memory. You just need to hold out a little longer.”