Roping My Bodyguard (Lone Star Security #7)

Chapter One

Presley

"Let me see that walk again, Harper—but this time, imagine the judges already love you."

I watched twelve-year-old Harper Lindsey's reflection in the mirror lining Crown & Grace's west wall, noting how her shoulders relaxed at my words.

Three months ago, this girl couldn't hold eye contact for more than two seconds.

Now she moved across my studio floor with genuine self-assurance that made my work feel like more than just coaching pageant techniques.

Harper paused, turned. "Like this?"

"Exactly like that." I adjusted her chin angle with gentle fingers. "Now show me the smile we've been practicing. The one that says you're not competing against anyone but yourself."

Her face transformed—not the pageant-perfect smile her mother probably expected, but something genuine that reached her blue eyes.

I stepped back, arms crossed. "Junior Star Texas won't know what hit them."

"You really think so?"

"Harper." I pulled her interview prep folder from my desk drawer. "Your answers are strong, your walk is beautiful, and that piano piece you've been practicing? It's going to wreck them. In the best possible way."

She grinned, gathering her things. Then her expression shifted, became uncertain. "Miss Presley? Is Addie okay?"

My stomach tightened. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"She just seemed really quiet at our last group practice. I know she's competing in Teen Star Texas next weekend, but..." Harper bit her lip. "She doesn't seem excited about it. She's usually so happy, but lately she just looks... sad."

The observation hit harder because it confirmed what I'd been trying not to acknowledge for weeks.

"Addison's working very hard on her routine," I said carefully. "Sometimes competition prep gets stressful."

"I guess." Harper didn't look convinced. "I just hope Addie's okay."

After Harper's mother Lisa arrived and I spent a few minutes reassuring her that yes, Harper was absolutely ready, I locked the studio door and stood there for a moment, Harper's words echoing in my head.

She was right. Addie wasn't okay.

My star student—seventeen, brilliant, usually so vibrant—had been slowly dimming for the past two months. Ever since Vanessa had taken over choreographing her dance routine. What should have been an exciting collaboration between mother and daughter had become something else entirely.

I'd witnessed glimpses of it myself during our sessions.

The way Addie flinched when her phone buzzed with texts from her mother.

The exhaustion in her eyes when she mentioned late-night rehearsals.

The anxiety that crept into her voice when she talked about getting the steps "perfect enough" for Vanessa's standards.

Last week, she'd apologized three times in ten minutes for minor mistakes I hadn't even noticed, her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for criticism.

"Mom says I need to work harder," she'd murmured when I'd gently asked if everything was okay. "She's putting so much time into this routine. I can't let her down."

But watching her run through the choreography, I'd seen no joy in her movements. Just technical precision executed by a girl who looked like she was carrying the weight of impossible expectations.

Addie was disappearing into her mother's vision of who she should be, and I felt helpless to stop it. I couldn't interfere between mother and daughter—that crossed professional lines. But watching one of my students lose herself trying to meet impossible standards was breaking my heart.

I'd built Crown & Grace on the principle that pageants should build self-esteem, not destroy it. That girls should discover their authentic selves, not become performers in someone else's show. But what could I do when the pressure was coming from inside Addie's own home?

Something needed to change. I just didn't know what.

I checked the time—six o'clock on a Monday evening in late May, the Texas sun still blazing through my windows overlooking the town square.

I loved this street-level corner location in the historic brick building on Main Street—part of a charming row of businesses that gave Valor Springs its small-town character.

I'd worked hard to build Crown & Grace into something special—seventeen active clients from eight-year-old Gabriela Torres to Addison, a waiting list, and a reputation for developing strong young women instead of pageant robots.

I was adjusting the throw pillows on my consultation sofa, still thinking about Addie, when I noticed the white envelope someone had slid under the door.

Probably just a flyer. Maybe the florist downstairs wanted to coordinate sidewalk displays for the upcoming festival.

I opened it.

Letters cut from magazines, glued to plain paper: STOP COACHING. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING.

I blinked. Read it again.

Then I actually laughed. Someone's idea of a prank. Had to be. Maybe one of the high school kids with too much time and too many true crime documentaries.

I crumpled the note, tossed it in the trash, grabbed my purse, and headed home.

The three-block walk was uneventful. Pleasant, even—warm evening air, neighbors watering their lawns, Mrs. Patterson from two doors down waving as she brought in her mail.

My Craftsman bungalow looked exactly as I'd left it that morning, white paint gleaming in the evening light, hydrangeas blooming along the front porch.

Normal. Home.

I let myself in, kicked off my heels with a groan of relief, and made dinner. Watched some mindless television. Went through my evening routine. By the time I climbed into bed, I'd almost forgotten about the note entirely.

Probably nothing. Just teenagers being stupid.

I fell asleep thinking about Addie and hoping I'd find a way to help her.

TUESDAY STARTED LIKE any other day.

I opened Crown & Grace at eight-thirty, made coffee, reviewed my schedule. Normal. Routine.

School had just ended for summer the week before, which meant my students finally had time for afternoon coaching sessions. Brynlee Sutherland was scheduled for three-thirty—we'd been working on her vocal talent piece for weeks, and she was finally starting to connect emotionally with the song.

The morning and early afternoon were dedicated to administrative work, competition paperwork, and answering parent emails about next weekend's Texas Star Pageant.

At noon, I grabbed lunch from Sweet Sage Bakery—chicken salad sandwich and sweet tea—and ate at my desk while reviewing files.

Brynlee arrived right on time at three-thirty, full of fourteen-year-old energy and nerves about her upcoming performance.

For the next hour and a half, we worked on her song—breath control, phrasing, connecting emotionally to the lyrics.

Singing had been my own talent back when I competed, and I still loved it.

These days I even narrated audiobooks on the side, a quiet passion that kept my voice trained and brought in some extra income doing work I genuinely enjoyed.

"That's it exactly," I told Brynlee after a particularly strong run-through. "You're not just singing the words—you're telling the story. That's what makes a performance unforgettable."

She beamed, gathering her things. "Thanks, Miss Presley. I feel so much better about it now."

By five o'clock, Brynlee had left, and I was alone in the studio. I moved to my private office—a small space I'd carved out with a desk, filing cabinets, and a consultation area where I met with parents. Soft afternoon light filtered through the windows as I sat down in the cushioned office chair.

I should've gone home. But I had paperwork to finish, emails to answer, last-minute competition details to note. I settled at my desk with the remains of my sweet tea and pulled up my laptop.

Outside, the town square was emptying as businesses closed for the evening. The sun angled through my windows, painting everything golden.

Peaceful. Quiet.

Then the window exploded.

Glass erupted inward with a sound like a gunshot. I screamed, threw my arms up to shield my face, felt something sharp slice across my forearm. Something heavy hit my desk with a thud that knocked over my tea, liquid spreading across papers and laptop keyboard.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Just stared at the destruction—glass glittering across my floor, my beautiful studio violated.

A brick. Red clay. Common as dirt at any hardware store. Just sitting there on my desk, no note, no message, nothing.

My heart hammered against my ribs. What the heck?

I stood on shaking legs and moved carefully through the glass to my door. Unlocked it, stepped outside onto the sidewalk, looking up and down Main Street. A few people walking, cars passing, but no one running away. No construction nearby. No kids playing baseball or throwing things.

I walked around the side of the building to the back parking area, checking for anyone who might've been there. Empty. Just the dumpster and my car.

Maybe it was an accident? Some kid with terrible aim? Someone throwing something out of a moving car?

I went back inside, locked the door, and stared at the brick.

No note. Just a brick through my window.

The note from yesterday whispered in the back of my mind: Stop coaching. This is your only warning.

No. They weren't connected. They couldn't be. That note was a prank—some stupid teenager trying to be edgy. And this was just... bad luck. Bad timing. Random vandalism.

Right?

I pulled out my phone to call the police, then hesitated.

What would I tell them? Someone threw a brick through my window? They'd file a report and do nothing. And if I mentioned the note from yesterday, I'd sound paranoid. Connecting two completely unrelated incidents because I was jumpy.

I looked at the brick again. At the shattered window. At the glass covering my studio floor.

What if it wasn't random?

What if someone really did want me to stop coaching?

What if they were escalating?