Page 49 of Thirsty Bodyguard Summer

The photographers’ shutters accelerated.

Shane tossed the jacket toward the marked wardrobe position without looking. It landed exactly where it was supposed to.

I scanned the media barrier again.

Three photographers stood behind it with cameras raised. A venue employee remained at the entrance to the section. Every badge had been checked against the preliminary list, but until Isabel sent the completed roster, none of those faces meant enough.

Shane moved into the dance break.

Friday’s shortened soundcheck had shown me the mechanics. Saturday’s rehearsal showed me the scale of the production.

Lighting followed him. Cameras tracked him. The dancers finished their turns on his marks. The band changed dynamics when he lifted one hand, and the next transition waited on the way he shaped the final word.

Shane pivoted through the final turn, caught the microphone, and hit the next lyric without sounding winded. Sweat darkened the sand-colored fabric between his shoulder blades.

I remembered exactly how those muscles had shifted beneath my hands.

I faced the left access point.

Nothing moved there except an SBS agent changing position.

The song ended on a sharp lighting blackout. One second later, the work lights returned.

Shane lifted the microphone. “The jacket cue was late.”

The lighting technician answered through the house speakers. “You dropped it half a count early.”

“I dropped it on the vocal.”

“You anticipated the vocal.”

“I sang the vocal.”

The drummer tapped a stick against his knee. “You were early.”

Shane turned toward him. “I’m surrounded by betrayal.”

“You’re surrounded by people who can count,” I said.

He turned toward me below the stage. “You’ve chosen their side?”

“I’m always on the side of accurate timing.”

“That explains our relationship.”

A dancer laughed near the wing.

My fingers tightened around the barrier rail at the word relationship.

Nobody reacted to it. To everyone else, Shane was flirting with his bodyguard. He’d probably flirted with makeup artists, bartenders, dancers, interviewers, and women whose lives came with private jets and dresses that cost more than my first car.

Shane turned back to the crew. “Reset the entrance. I’ll wait for the count this time.”

“You waited last time,” the drummer said. “You counted wrong.”

“I liked you better when you needed me for a paycheck.”

“You still sign the checks.”