Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“You’re doing great,” he says, voice not entirely steady.
“Professional feedback duly noted,” I manage, and Elodie pretends to be fascinated by her pins, mouth twitching.
We film. It’s romantic—slow pans, a laugh over my shoulder, a close-up of fabric sliding like sunlight. Riggs is a wall at the door. I never have to look to know where he is. It makes me feel safe.
Look four is a navy suit tailored within a millimeter of indecent. I step out, jacket unbuttoned, bralette peeking, pants breaking just right over strappy heels, and watch Riggs’s eyes go from asset to woman and back like he’s forcing himself. He drops his gaze to my shoes, inhales, and says, “Wow.”
Elodie smiles and says, “I love a boyfriend with good taste.”
It’s pride that takes over my face. I love hearing Riggs being called my boyfriend.
“He has the best,” I say, and Riggs just grunts in response and Elodie and I laugh.
We leave the storage area and return to the store. We’re down to the last look—white silk, bias cut, the idea of a dress more than a dress itself. Riggs eyes drag over my body leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s almost like his eyes burn right through me, and then he switches to professional mode. He taps his earpiece, and his face turns stoic.
“Copy,” he says, and shifts to block me from the window. “Curtains.”
“Everything okay?”
Lina whisks them closed. The boutique becomes a small, safe world. The note from yesterday flutters at the edge of my mind and then quiets, because whatever waits outside is going to have to go through him.
Riggs nods once. “Everything’s fine.”
I stare at him for a beat longer than necessary. Even if the world was on fire, I think Riggs would still tell me it’s all fine so I wouldn’t panic. I don’t know if I like that, or not. All I know is whatever’s going on outside, I trust Riggs to keep me safe.
We do final shots in the white silk. I catch my reflection—pale glow, dark hair, a smile that looks like it belongs to someone who knows where her feet are. When we wrap, Elodie kisses my cheeks again and presses a garment bag into my hands. “For later,” she says, in a low voice. “No cameras.”
My face heats. “You’re dangerous.”
“So is he,” she says, glancing at the doorway where Riggs is already coordinating exit routes with the hotel guard. “But only in the right direction.”
Brice corrals the crew as Lina counts pins. Riggs sends our SUV down the alley and lines everyone up by twos like a field trip. He waits until the last possible second to open the door, then tucks me into his body.
Outside smells like rain and espresso. There’s two men at the café. It almost happens in slow motion. One lifts his phone, ready to snap a picture. Riggs turns me with a subtle press, his palm skating across my hip, and the shot the world gets is the back of his broad shoulder, not the line of my throat.
In the SUV, Lina collapses with a happy sigh. “We did it. We did it!”
“We did it,” Brice echoes, typing furiously into three group chats. “That gold reel is going to end communism.”
Riggs ignores him, scanning the mirrors. The SUV eases into traffic, and the boutique shrinks in the rearview like the past. He loosens his hand where it’s still at my waist and doesn’t move it far. My body leans into him.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low enough to be mine.
“Better than okay,” I say, surprising myself with the truth. “I forgot to be scared inside there. Because you were there.”
He exhales, something easing around his eyes. “Good.”
I twist the garment bag around my finger. “Elodie gave me a dress,” I confess. “For…not content.”
His mouth does that almost-smile. “I noticed.” His gaze dips to my hand on the hanger, then cuts to the window like it’s a thing to be defeated. “You were—” He stops, and recalibrates. “You did your job.”
“So did you,” I say. “It was… insanely attractive.”
“Professional feedback duly noted,” he says, and it’s impossible not to laugh.
My phone buzzes. I glance down. A hundred fire emojis, a dozen “WHO IS HE” messages, a trending banner that makes my stomach tilt and settle again. I turn the screen face down.
“What’s the damage?” he asks.
“Everyone wants to know who my boyfriend is.” I bump his shoulder. “Should I tell them he’s my bodyguard?”
“No,” he says, deadpan.
“Should I tell them he’s a wall who kisses like a promise?” It slips out, too honest. His hand flexes at my waist. He doesn’t look at me, and he doesn’t let go.
“Tell them,” he says after a beat, “that you’re busy.”
“Busy,” I echo, smiling into the window. “With my safety?”
“With living,” he says, and the word lands like a vow.