16. Nina
16
NINA
We spend the next few hours at a picturesque beach only a few minutes outside of Kosita.
From here, the city looks etched into the side of a hill, its architecture marking just how old it could be. I read a chapter or two of my book before texting Raven; she watches too many kidnapping movies and is terrified I’ll be a victim. I don’t tell her a brooding tree of a man is guarding me, but I assure that I’m fine. I send a couple of pictures from my days, and she gushes over the aesthetic of it all.
Raven
OMG! Please please find a Maldanian man to have a fling with so I can live vicariously.
I chuckle, glance at Beck standing dutifully behind me, and type a reply.
I don’t think Zafir would like that or that it’s gonna happen, girl. Sorry. I’ll be sure to take pictures of parliament, though!
My soon-to-be-diplomat of a friend is as nerdy in her field as I am in mine. It’s why we’re still so close. She doesn’t ask for details about Mom and it’s nice to text back and forth about normal travel things.
I think I could live here forever.
Raven
Uh oh. That has more weight since your mom’s from there.
When are you coming home?
My return flight’s been canceled.
Raven
????
What is going on? Am I never seeing you again?
Of course you will!!
I still have a lot to sort out here.
She’s skeptical, but lets me know she has my back. With a full heart, I pull up Instagram to make a few posts to my stories. So far, the day is good. Clear skies. Calm waters.
So why do I pull up James’s Instagram page?
The most recent post is a group picture with the friends I always hated. A pit gathers in my stomach when his arm is around a woman. She’s beautiful, but judging from her severely ripped jeans and crop top, she’s not his type.
Why do I care?
I lock and shove my phone into my bag with more force than necessary. Drinks. I need a pi?a colada. My high has worn off enough to warrant one. Maia’s swimming in the clear blue water, flirting with a guy. After a quick scan, I notice Mason watching her. Good. The best part about having a bodyguard is that I don’t have to worry about my little sister too much.
I sit peacefully at the beach bar until Beck lowers beside me ten minutes later. His sunglasses are removed and slung over the neckline of his white button-up. The sleeves, rolled to his elbow, hug his muscles and a fleeting thought of raking my nails over them crosses my mind.
I stir my pi?a colada. “I don’t need protection here. It’s a private beach.”
“Three different men have been staring at you around the beach for an hour. Two of them moved to the bar since you sat here.”
I glance around, but no men catch my eyes. None I’d fuck, anyway. I want to tease Beck, ask if he’s jealous, ask how he’d know I wouldn’t want the attention of the men who’d been staring. After all, it’s not his job to fend off interested suitors. But it wouldn’t feel right because I want him beside me. Having him around flows so easily that it unsettles me, so I order another drink.
The bartender says something in Maldanian to Beck, who offers a polite expression—not quite a smile—and responds in turn. They speak so fast that I don’t get a chance to decipher much of the conversation.
“You’re kinder when you speak Maldanian,” I say, taking a sip of my second pi?a colada.
“How would you know?”
I scoff. Way to rub it in that I’m not fluent. “Language is more than just words. It’s tone, body movements, and general attitude. It’s called secondary linguistical personality. For example, I’m more laid-back when I speak Spanish.”
The bartender sets a wet glass of ice water in front of him, its condensation instantly creating a puddle.
“Interesting. Second language per?—”
“Secondary linguistical personality. So you’re cold in English and a gentleman in Maldanian.” I smirk and take a sip of my drink at his glare. “Let’s only speak Maldanian. I need to learn it.”
“I’m not your teacher.”
I scowl. “Don’t be a dick. It’s unbecoming.”
The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. He leans back and crosses his arms. “You don’t need me to help you. It won’t be long until you’re fluent.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You already know both Spanish and Italian. Your knowledge of Greek will help, too.” His matter-of-fact tone is rattling.
I set my drink down. “How do you know all of that?”
“It was in your file.”
“I have a file?” A new wave of discomfort washes over me. “What else do you know about me?”
Beck shrugs. “Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is. You just don’t like it.”
“What else is in that file?”
Any relaxation I gathered in the last few minutes vanishes entirely. How many people researched me? I imagine someone taking photos of me while on campus, at a volleyball game, on a date with James. My Instagram account shows very little of my life and I keep my posts private. That made no difference. A whole team excavated information about me.
“Information. I know that your ex cheated and that your best friend just moved in with her NFL player boyfriend.”
My stomach drops. “You… you know about James?”
Oh, god. I can only imagine what he thought the moment he learned I was cheated on. That someone didn’t think I was important enough to stay loyal to. He shouldn’t know about James and Raven and Zafir. They’re not secrets, but they are pieces of my life that I haven’t shared with him or anyone in Maldana.
What did those people think of my life? Did they think I should’ve done more? Were they judging me—thinking I’m nothing like Mom and can’t fill her shoes?
“You had no right,” I blurt.
“Excuse me?” He doesn’t speak as if offended.
“You had no right to dig through my life like that!” I slip out of the chair, bag in hand, and start to walk away. Beck shouldn’t know these things and I feel weirdly violated that he does.
He trails behind me. “ I didn’t do any digging. They handed me a file and I read it. It was a required step to protect my client adequately.”
I whirl on him, not caring if I’m loud. “I’m a person ! My life is not a—not a step you have to take for a job!” I move closer, angling to look up and challenge him and his bullshit vague answers. “How would you feel, huh? If every detail of your life was displayed for people you barely know to analyze and make judgments? Don’t act like I’m not justified. Would you want strangers reading about your worst mistakes, Wesley?”
He sighs. “If it makes you feel any better, very few people have access to your file.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You don’t want me to.”
“Yes, I do.”
My bodyguard hesitates as he searches for the right words. “My worst mistakes would scare the reader more than me.”
“Of course .” I roll my eyes. Did I expect anything different? I turn on my heel and snap, “Do not follow me.”
It won’t matter; he still will. I slam into the empty restrooms as every reality crashes in on me within seconds. The crown. My father. My lack of privacy. Wesley Troutbeck.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Maybe I panicked because of James. He’s across the ocean and I still let him rattle me. I like to be confident in all my decisions, and slipping onto his Instagram page reminds me of everything I’m unsure of.
What’s the plan, huh? I don’t fantasize; I calculate steps toward my goals. There is no point in thinking of Beck— Wesley —past his responsibilities. I’m not the type of person to act surprised when I suddenly find an interest in someone I’ve already known. I’m an observant over-thinker. I see a life story, a potential relationship, with every attractive man I meet.
Given, my interest often fizzles quickly, but it’s the opposite with Wesley. I keep waiting for him to do something to turn me off for good, yet every turn makes my cheeks flush and my heart race. It has to stop because I draw a blank when trying to thread a future with him, and a life without a plan is unacceptable.
A blinking light in the upper corner of the restroom catches my eye. It’s a camera angled toward the door, and I wonder whether he’s watching me from his phone. It’s a gross invasion of privacy. It turns my stomach to be entirely monitored by a team. Wesley’s job is to protect me, but it infuriates me that it feels as though he means it.
I need to snap out of it. After washing my hands, I splash my face with cold water and pat it dry with the shirt in my bag because European bathrooms rarely have paper towels. I reapply moisturizer and sunscreen and stare at my reflection. I’m pathetic. Wondering if he actually cares about me? Having a bodyguard just shows me how lonely I am. In a burst of motivation, I grab my phone and text Maia.
Let’s go to that club tomorrow.
Seconds later, her reply chimes in. She must be out of the ocean.
Maia
FUCK YEAH.
After another moment, she attaches that popular GIF of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler dancing in sync.
How many times in my life can I go clubbing in a foreign country? I won’t have to worry about being the inspiration for another Taken movie franchise—I have a whole team monitoring my safety.
I step out of the restroom and find Wesley waiting patiently, my pi?a colada in hand. With renewed energy and confidence, I accept the drink and take a sip.
“Feel better?” he asks, and I resist another roll of my eyes. Arrogant ass.
I shield my face from the glaring sun. “I’m calling you Wesley from now on.”
“Weren’t you already?”
I smile at his indirect approval, plucking the umbrella from my drink before sucking off the residue and sticking it behind his ear. “And Maia and I are going to a club tomorrow.”
It’s easy to miss, but there’s a subtle fall in his expression.
On the drive back to the hotel, I spot an adorable café passing through the Milagro neighborhood. The tables and chairs are angled for people watching near the fountain in the center of a roundabout.
“We have to stop there! It’s so cute and I’m starving.”
Maia agrees, and Wesley and Mason sit at another table when we arrive. My sister groans, exasperated. “Enough of that! I’m tired of you guys sitting over there like stalkers. Just sit with us.”
Mason sighs. Wesley looks at me for confirmation, but I shrug and say, “I agree. It’s weird.”
The moment they settle on either side of us and I open the menu, I realize something. “Wait—I haven’t seen either of you eat today.”
“I’m fine,” Wesley says, shaking his head.
Mason nods. “As am I, Your Highness.”
I huff and stick menus in front of them. “Oh, my goodness. Eat! What do I look like, the queen?” At their knowing stares, I hold up a hand. “Don’t answer that.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Wesley says, his demeanor steady and obedient. Maia busts out laughing, and I watch him in disbelief before giggling.
“Well, well, well. Someone selected to be pleasant this afternoon,” I taunt, hiding my smile by surveying the menu between us. It’s unlikely he’ll ever make a move—he’s far too reserved—but at least we can be friendly.