Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
But ideal went out the window the moment I became Charlie’s bodyguard. So here I am, quietly telling a girl in French that she can’t get an autograph from him.
She already has a marker in hand, one she dug from her purse. Her crestfallen expression is one I’ve seen a thousand times. “Cela ne prendra qu'une minute. S'il vous plaît.” It will only be a minute. Please.
I reply in fluent French, “Pas aujourd'hui.” Not today.
She can’t be older than twenty. Sighing heavily, she stuffs the marker in her purse. I watch as she uses her phone to snap photos of the back of Charlie’s head, then shuffles away. Rinse and repeat thirty more times. The only upside I have is that Charlie’s less recognized overseas. If this were Philly, he’d have a swarm of crowds already.
It makes it easier to politely bar access to him.
Truth be told, every day is different with my client. Sometimes he won’t care if they want autographs. Other times, like today, he asks me to keep everyone away from him. As if he, himself, is radioactive.
Jack leaves Charlie’s side, and I watch him disappear down a different hall. It takes all my effort to keep my feet planted and not follow him. He’s not your client, Oliveira.
He’s also not famous. Doesn’t need a bodyguard. Straight.
Doesn’t need me.
Look at me, with this sound logic. I should just duct-tape that mantra to my brain. Then maybe my dumbass can stop thinking he’s more mesmerizing than the breathtaking art in this building.
“Hi umm…” Someone taps my shoulder. I rotate to see a twenty-something woman. Hair the color of burnt leaves, American accent, a fashion fanny pack on her hourglass waist—total Instagram Influencer Realness.
She’s hot.
Am I interested…? My eyes almost dart to where Jack left.
“Aren’t you Oscar Oliveira?” She bites her bottom lip.
On one side of all this SFO fame, I don’t need to bat a single eyelash to pick up women or men.
The public knows I’m bi after catching me lip-locked with a man. I was outside a gay bar on my night off, and security isn’t supposed to give interviews to press—but the thought of the media theorizing my sexuality didn’t sit right with me. So I told the paparazzi, “I’m bisexual” and went home with my arm around a hot one-night lay.
Not that picking up people was hard pre-fame. But the new distraction on-duty just makes a complicated job more complicated. And I’m the only one from Kitsuwon Securities in Paris right now. No extra set of eyes when mine wander.
Plus, there’s a restriction about fucking the fans of SFO, written clearly in Kitsuwon’s 400-page rulebook.
The rule: do not.
I think my brother is the only one who consciously breaks it all the time. I prefer not to fuck fans. It ruins some of the chase and foreplay when it’s just…so easy to get them in bed. A waste of my best pick-up lines.
Have I done it though? Yeah.
I’m not fucking perfect. Far from it.
So I’m staring at the Influencer-styled chick, and she’s asking me if I’m Oscar. And I go for the typical response.
“I am,” I say. “But I’m busy.”
“Can I just have a quick selfie?” She smiles and wags her cellphone seductively.
I shake my head, gaze planted on Charlie, but from the corner of my eye, I notice Jack returning, his confident stride and welcoming aura like a radiant beam of light. Even when I saw his morning wood on the plane and then his embarrassment, he managed to smile and keep cool.
The guy is unreal. Who wouldn’t want that kind of luminous joy in their life? He can’t be a part of yours, Oliveira.
My stomach twists.
Maybe I need to be more proactive in building barriers around my heart. And I can’t think of a better way to get over him than to give in to her.
“You know what,” I say. “Sure.”
Her face lights up, and she lifts her phone. Her hair smells like candy apples, but it’s not my favorite scent. She snaps the pic and examines the photo. “We look hot together.” Her grin expands. “Could I have your number? Maybe we could take more hot selfies sometime?”
She’s bold.
I like bold.
“Hey.” Jack steps close, two water bottles in hand. So that’s where he went. He casts me a quick glance, then one to the girl. Back and forth.
Her brows draw together. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Jack,” he says into a short nod, his smile gone. “Who are you?” That was cold for welcome-mat, red-carpet-entrance Jack Highland.
I’m staring more at him than her. He sounds jealous. I’d bet…five bucks on it.
“Everly Adams. I’m here for study abroad and ran into this handsome guy.” She winks up at me. “You know he’s Charlie Cobalt’s bodyguard?”
I look Jack over as he shifts his stance, more closed off to her. He tucks a water bottle under his armpit and uncaps the other. “I know him. Oscar is one of the best bodyguards in the entire fleet, but he’s on-duty—”