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Sixteen
A LOT TOprocess there.
After the brothers stomped off in opposite directions, and Doc helped Connie back to her bed to rest, I found myself sitting in the hammock chair under the oak tree, realizing one very simple thing.
I had to quit.
It wasn’t Connie’s health troubles. I’d dealt with sick people before. And it wasn’t the mysterious beef between the brothers. All families had secrets.
It was Jack.
I’d hoped that being around him in real life would be disappointing—that without a stylist and a writer to feed him his lines, he’d lose his appeal. As much as I didn’t want to let the fantasy go, I also knew it was the only way to do this assignment right.
I’d been counting on the reality being worse than the fantasy.
But the reality… was better.
This was the problem. As mesmerizing as the celluloid version of Jack was, the real guy—the guy who left his clothes on the floor, and made fun of my nightgown, and gave me piggyback rides, and was terrified of bridges—this guy was better.
And whether it was because of those smiley eyes of his, or because I had none of my usual relentless busyness to keep me distracted, or because I’d already let myself swoon over him when I had no idea I’d ever meet him in real life—it didn’t matter.
The fact was, none of my usual defenses worked.
When he looked at me like he was in love, my insides melted. Everything I read for pretend on his face… I was feeling for real.
He was faking all those feelings—but I was feeling them. Genuinely.
And no matter what your skill level is, or how much you might care about your professional reputation, or what your boss has ordered you to do, or what other rules you might be able to break and get away with it… you can’t—absolutely cannot—have a thing for your principal.
That’s just Executive Protection 101.
And if I had to confess it to Glenn, I would. He’d respect my decision to do the right thing and put the principal first.
Or, at least—I really, really hoped so.
QUITTING.
The end of the job. The end of my career, too, most likely. But there was no way around it.
Love makes you muddled. Love clouds your judgment. Love derails you with longing.
Or so they say.
That hadn’t happened to me with Robby… but—and this was only occurring to me now—maybe that hadn’t been love? Because whatever was going on with Jack Stapleton was far more destabilizing.
I didn’t understand it, but one thing was clear. It was complex enough to make things pretty simple.
I needed to get out of here.
I climbed out of the hammock swing, stood up, and started walking along the gravel road toward the surveillance house. I’d walk over, call Glenn, and quit. Easy. But I’d only made it halfway to the gate when I heard an unmistakable sound. The crack of a rifle firing.
I stopped in my tracks.
Turned.
Another shot.
It was coming from past the barn.
