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There’s also something about him that’s vaguely familiar, but for the life of me I can’t recall why. It’s like he reminds me of a famous actor or something.
“I need you to turn around,” he says stiffly, making a motion for me to pivot and go.
“But I live here,” I protest.
The line between his brows deepens, and his full mouth sets into a hard line. This man is no joke. He jerks his very strong, manly, bearded chin down the road. “I’m going to need you to turn around,” he repeats.
I blink at him. “I’m sorry, but who even are you? I’m not turning around. I live here. And if you don’t let me go home to my mother, who, by the way, suffers from DPD and BPD, she’s going to end up calling the police when I don’t show up. Hell, I’ll call the police right now and report you.”
The man stares at me, and I stare right back at my frazzled reflection, my eyes drifting briefly to notice that his ears stick out, just a little. That bit of information is enough to take the intimidation factor down a notch.
When he finally speaks, I expect him to ask me to leave again, but instead he asks, “What’s DPD?”
I sigh. I didn’t mean to drag my mother’s mental illness into this. In fact, there are very few people around me who know exactly what she has, so the fact that I told him—this very commanding, rude British stranger in a suit—the truth feels wrong.
“It stands for dependent personality disorder. And before you ask about BPD, that stands for borderline personality disorder.”
He raises his chin, and I’m not sure if this is an act of defiance or if he’s going to ask me further questions that he can obviously go and Google later. Then he says in his low, raspy voice, “What’s your address?”
I’m about to tell him, but I stop myself. “Wait a minute, you never told me who you are. Why should I tell a stranger my address? You think I want to see your face peeping through my window while I’m sleeping?”
His frown amplifies. “You think I’m a Peeping Tom?”
“I don’t know. Is your name Tom?”
“It’s Harrison,” he says reluctantly. “Harrison Cole, PPO. And I’m afraid that unless you prove you live where you say you do, you’ll have to turn around. I’ve been turning away cars all day, and I have no problems doing it to you.”
Wow. What an asshole. I clear my throat. “Sorry, Harrison Cole? Is that a made-up name or your real name?”
He grunts in response, and if his brows furrow any deeper, I’m afraid his face might split in two.
I continue, no longer intimidated by him and his overtly manly, gruff ways. “And since you asked me what DPD stood for when you should have minded your own business, I’m going to have to ask you what a PPO is. Petty paralegal oaf? Perfectly pissy oligarch?”
“Personal protection officer,” he booms. “By order of Her Majesty, the Queen of the United Kingdom.”
I blink at him as things slowly come together in my brain. “Like a bodyguard? Are you . . . oh my god, are you Eddie and MRed’s bodyguard?”
He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to. It dawns on me, one big bright lightbulb going on in my head, that the reason I thought he looked familiar isn’t because he’s an actor but because I have seen him in the tabloids and on the news. Usually out of sight but sometimes in the background behind Eddie and Monica. He’s the one the public (or at least the voracious users of the #FairfaxFans hashtag on Twitter) has dubbed the Broody Bodyguard and Sexy Secret Agent, and I’ve stumbled across more than a few fanfics about him. (And by stumbled, I mean purposefully devoured. For my podcast . . . )
And he’s standing here, in front of me, telling me to go. Which means that the royal couple have to be farther up the road!
“I’ll let you go to your house if you can prove you live there,” the infamous Broody Bodyguard eventually says. “Let me see your driver’s license.”
Oh . . . that.
Shit.
Two
I stare at the Sexy Secret Agent for a moment, wondering if he’ll even believe my excuse. “I . . . I don’t have it,” I tell him.
I can feel him studying me with disbelief. “You don’t have your driver’s license?”
“I know, I know. I had it this morning, but a kid puked in my bag. Sicky Nicky, the kids called him. It was my fault, really.”
“A kid did what?” Then he shakes his head. “Likely excuse.”
He’s got to be joking if he thinks that’s an excuse. I’m used to the-dog-ate-my-homework excuses at work, and generally the more outlandish they are, the more they seem to be true. I mean, unless their homework was eaten by velociraptors or something.
