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“So he did, so he did,” Mrs. Wegman said nostalgically. “We used to chatter on for hours, me and Gault. I could almost forget he was a famous rock star if it weren’t for those purple stovepipe hats he always wore. He was just like a normal person, not like most…” She trailed off again, turning nearly as red as her sweater. “I don’t mean…”
Bliss gazed at her blankly before catching on. “Oh, no doubt, celebrities are so full of themselves. It’s a good thing I’m not one, just someone who stands in front of a camera.” She winked at her former violin teacher, then gestured toward the old-fashioned key she still clutched. “Shall I take that off your hands and check in with my head of security?”
“Oh! Yes, of course. Here.” She practically shoved the key into Bliss’ hand. “The very top floor. It has a private elevator, well actually, it’s an old dumbwaiter that we converted. And then our daughter told us we shouldn’t use that term, dumbwaiter, so forget I mentioned it. Twice.” She clapped a hand to her forehead.
“You had me at elevator. I already forgot the rest. Is there parking? I’d like to pull my car up closer to unload my bags. I’m doing the hair and makeup for Carly’s wedding, so I have several cases of supplies.”
Mrs. Wegman gave her directions for where to park, and filled her in on other essentials such as morning coffee in the lobby and which local restaurants delivered to the inn.
A moment later, Bliss slumped gratefully against the cherry-wood paneled wall of the elevator. She got so uncomfortable when people didn’t treat her like anyone else. What on earth did it matter if they’d seen her on a billboard or in a magazine? That was just aface, and really, not even that. Photos were nothing but light and shadow as captured by a piece of technology. They had nothing to do withher.
And Mrs. Wegman knew her. She’d attempted to teach her how to play the violin, and Bliss definitely remembered some impatience and frustration. How had she gone from, “Don’t pick your nose with the bow,” to babbling just because Bliss had now posed forVogue? It made Bliss a little sad.
Having grown up with a celebrity father, she’d seen how people reacted to him. But Gault was a charismatic and talented rock star. Bliss just happened to have a face that photographed well. It seemed odd that something so out of her control could be so important in determining her life. Looks were such a quirk of fate. Every single person she’d ever met had their own certain particular kind of beauty. The fact that the particular combination of genes passed down from Gault and Monica Mayhew, aka Serenity Om, her mother, just happened to come out in a way that cameras loved…it was just a fluke, really.
Oh well. It was what it was. She was Bliss Gault, the photogenic one, the flighty one, the carefree one. That was what people wanted from her, and she gave it to them. Because it mostly felt like an act that didn’t fit her, she had a mantra: “When in doubt, smile it out.”
She said it now, alone in the elevator, which rose to the top floor so quietly and smoothly that at first she didn’t notice when the door slid open.
Someone cleared their throat, and she jerked her head up to see a large figure standing just outside the elevator door. It was a man, quite tall, broad in the shoulder, solid as quarry rock. His arms were folded across his chest and he was squinting down at her.
“Do you always talk to yourself in empty elevators?”
“No,” she said immediately, defensively. “I mean, what business is it of yours?”
“I need to know if I should buy headphones. Do you talk a lot, generally?”
His sheer size had her so flustered that it took her another long moment to put it together that this was, of course, Earl Granger, her “head of security.”
In person, he was very intimidating. Not just because of his height, but also thanks to the stern expression on his face. His skin was several shades darker than hers, somewhere between bronze and copper, his hair was cropped no-nonsense short, and his general manner was one of badassery.
Which, she considered, was probably a very good thing in a fake head of security.
“So far, you’ve said twice as many words as I have,” she pointed out.
He stared at her for a long moment. It was the kind of look she didn’t experience very often—if ever. Penetrating, direct, seemingly unconcerned with her outer appearance, more about deciphering whatever was underneath.
“Good point,” he finally said. “I’ll hold off on the headphones. Are you coming out? The doors are about to close. They stay open for exactly six-point-two seconds.”
She quickly stepped off the elevator, just as the doors slid together behind her. “You must be Special Agent Earl Granger.”
He seemed to wince slightly at the sound of his name. “Just call me Granger.”
“Granger. I’m Bliss Gault.” She offered her hand. He took it for a quick handshake. She watched her hand completely disappear inside his huge brown one. He shook it gently enough, even though she could feel the massive strength he held back. He wore a black thermal that hugged his muscles, and dark olive-drab pants. “Thanks for agreeing to play my bodyguard.”
“Head of security.”
She smiled at the correction. “Of course. Call it whatever you want. It’s not real anyway.” The truth was, the idea of having someone follow her around all the time, even for her safety, gave her hives. She was at heart an introvert, despite her carefree facade.
“That remains to be seen.”
She widened her eyes at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“If you need a fake bodyguard, that probably means you need a real bodyguard. Why else would you need a fake one?”
She put on her flakiest, Bliss-iest smile. “O.M.G., that’s such a good point! The thing is, all my model friends have bodyguards, they’re like, the hot new thing.”
“So I’m…what, trendy?” The muted horror in his voice nearly made her break character.
