13. Chapter 13
SEAN
THE MAN WHO APPROACHES LONDYN has thick wavy hair, a confident smile, and a gray suit. Londyn stuffs her phone in her purse, unable to finish her message to me.
"Mike," I say into my lapel, keeping my voice low. "That her date?"
There's a brief pause. "Yeah. She seems nervous but she greeted him. They're heading in now."
The bartender arrives with my water, which is perfect timing. Now I can wrap my fingers around the glass and try to break it as I watch Londyn smile at this stranger.
Marcus Rivera. Thirty-two years old. Credit Analyst. Owns a condo in SoHo.
Has a Golden Retriever. His background check came back clean with no criminal history, just like Mike told Londyn, but he does have one unpaid parking ticket.
That doesn't sit right with me. I get it if you're struggling financially and can't pay.
That's forgivable. But Mr. Rivera comes from a wealthy family.
And he still didn't pay his ticket? That's douchebag behavior.
He gestures broadly over her body, like he might be complimenting her dress, and she blushes with a slight duck of her head. The restaurant door swings open, and suddenly she's inside, moving through the space like a brilliant black flame.
The bar's strategic positioning is perfect; the classic mirror behind the bottles gives me sight lines to nearly the entire restaurant without having to crane my neck like some obvious creeper. I order a virgin mojito and antipasto, establishing my cover as Just Another Solo Diner.
The hostess leads Londyn and her date to the correct booth, and I watch Londyn's shoulders visibly relax when she sits. Her neck also elongates as if the space between her vertebra just opened. Her lips soften into a beautiful smile.
I sip my water and feel my own shoulders lowering. She looks happy with the booth. Good. Worth the trouble.
Her date adjusts his suit jacket, and I automatically catalog details: expensive watch (trying too hard), posture that suggests he works out but probably just uses machines (functional strength: minimal), pricey haircut that he honestly could've been done at home with sharp scissors (priorities questionable).
"Nice looking dude," Mike comments through my earpiece.
I don't respond, just frown at my water. Nice looking? The guy's nose is crooked, probably broken once and never set properly. His jacket is at least a half-size too small across the shoulders—off-the-rack masquerading as tailored. And that smile has too many teeth, like a shark circling chum.
What does she see in this guy?
I force my gaze away, studying the framed black and white photos of supposed 'Old Country' scenes that are probably just stock images. Focus on the job, not the client's personal life.
The bartender slides my mocktail and antipasto across the bartop. "Game's on if you're interested," he says, nodding toward a small TV tucked in the corner.
"Thanks," I reply, adjusting my concealed holster and shifting my stool slightly. Now I can pretend to watch the soccer game that's playing and still have a view of Londyn's booth in the mirror.
She laughs at something her date says, but it's different from the unreserved laughter I saw through the surveillance feed when she was talking to her friend. This laugh is restrained and barely lifts her cheeks. She's performing.
I sigh. Why am I even noticing this shit?
I take a deliberate bite of a provolone cube, trying to drown my inappropriate thoughts in cheese. I'm going beyond my job duties here. I pulled strings to get her the booth she wanted. I'm sizing up her date like auditioning for the role of jealous boyfriend.
If Mike knew the direction of my thoughts, he'd drag my ass out of here so fast my boots would leave skid marks.
But seeing her comfortable, seeing that small relief in her posture when she sat down, gives me a satisfaction I haven't felt in a long time. The simple pleasure of making someone feel better.
That's all this is. Professional pride.
I watch another couple across the restaurant.
They're middle-aged with a comfortable silence between them, sharing a tiramisu without needing to discuss who gets which bite.
They've got a flow down from years, maybe decades, together.
They share a quiet certainty that their significant other will always be there, no matter what.
Wonder what that feels like.
I sip my virgin drink and then stab an olive, savoring the tartness. I'm wondering too much lately. Like what happens after this job. Another year of hopping on planes? More empty hotel rooms in countries where I don't speak the language?
At least I haven't fucked anything up so far this week. Only three more weeks to go, which is plenty of time for my instincts to fail me again.
Movement draws my attention back to Londyn's table. Her date has shifted closer to her in their booth, his arm now stretched across the back of the seat behind her. Classic move but telegraphed like a novice boxer's right hook.
Londyn's entire body stiffens, and she inches away to create space between them. Her lips move, and even though I'm rusty with lipreading, I catch the gist of what she says: "Sorry, I need some fucking breathing room, loser."
Okay. She didn't curse or call him names. But she did ask for space.
To his credit, her date immediately withdraws his arm, nodding with what seems like genuine understanding. Good. Because if this guy ignored her boundaries, I'd have to intervene.
That would definitely blow my cover.
The evening drags on, and I watch it unfold through the mirror, sipping my sugary mock drink while Londyn and her date work through appetizers, entrées, and a shared cannoli dessert.
Professional distance. That's what I'm maintaining. Just a bodyguard doing his job. Though my hands are tired from gripping my glass and utensils too hard.
When her date signals for the check, I drain the last of my second virgin mojito and flag down the bartender. Time to move.
"Everything alright with your meal?" he asks, collecting my empty plate.
"Perfect. Just need the check, please."
I've already settled my bill and retrieved my card by the time Londyn's date is calculating how much he'll tip.
I slip out ahead of them, moving to the sneaker shop I looked at earlier.
The same bored employee glances up. Those raised brows and frown say he recognizes me.
Great, now he thinks I'm some indecisive sneaker fetishist.
"Everything been good?" I say to Mike.
"Yup. Quiet night." His voice crackles in my ear. "Nothing strange."
"When they leave, stay across the street and I'll follow behind Londyn."
"Got it."
I pretend to examine a pair of neon green high-tops while watching Londyn and her date exit the restaurant.
They pause outside. Her date stands too close, so Londyn creates space between them with subtle shifts of her body.
Body language doesn't lie. Her bouncing knee, that flat palm against her stomach, the zigzag line of her spine—she's ready for this night to end.
Her date leans in for a hug. Londyn sidesteps him smoothly. Even from this distance, I can see the effort it takes to maintain her smile.
I strain to listen.
"Maybe we could see each other again next week?" her date asks, his voice carrying in the warm evening air.
Londyn's response is quieter, but I think she says, "I enjoyed dinner, but I should get home."
Her date straightens his already-too-tight jacket. "Please, let me walk you home so I know you get there safely."
That's either his smooth attempt for something more, or he's genuinely chivalrous.
There's a hesitation in Londyn's posture—a fraction of a second where she grimaces and considers refusing—before she nods. "Sure, okay. Thanks."
My stomach sinks like a stone thrown into endlessly deep water. Damn. This wasn't the plan. She told us she'd say goodbye at the restaurant and head straight back to the apartment alone.
What if she's changed her mind? What if she invites him up?
I hadn't considered this possibility, and the thought sends an acidic burn through my chest, all that cheese and those olives coming back up. I want her to have a nice evening, sure. But not that nice. The idea of this guy in her apartment, in her bedroom, helping her slip out of that dress…
I make fists at my side and glare at the window sneakers. Now the employee is looking worried.
Jesus, what kind of asshole am I? It's none of my business how Londyn chooses to spend her evening.
I'm here to watch out for a stalker, not police her personal life.
If she wants company, that's her choice.
That's her right. And she has a panic button on her phone.
She knows we're right across the hall and will hear her scream if she needs help.
Still, the thought of lying awake all night knowing a guy is in her apartment gives me brain static.
This is definitely not like me at all.
I keep my distance as they start walking. Londyn's heels click against the sidewalk. They're six feet apart, and she's the one maintaining that gap. Good sign, maybe. Or maybe I'm reading too much into it because I want to.
"Sean," Mike's voice cuts through my brooding. "Guy in a navy baseball cap, west side of the street. He's been eyeing them since they left."
I scan the pedestrians, quickly spotting him.
He's an average height, shoulders hunched forward, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
It's strange because it's a little warm for a jacket.
He's walking the same direction as Londyn and Marcus, but at a pace that feels deliberately measured.
Not moving to close the distance, but not letting it increase either.
My muscles tense as I realize how much I drifted off target. I was so focused on Londyn and her date that I didn't notice Navy Cap. Mike's right: the guy looks sketchy.
And I didn't notice.