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“Ahem.”
Memories and heartache fill my chest, and I feel like I’m unable to breathe. It’s like being in a war. It is impossible to escape the images and pain—it’s always there.
“Sorry. You’ve sponsored quite a few teams,” I say as I try to shake my thoughts.
“We have. Have a seat.” He motions to a set of chairs across from his desk.
I sink into a maroon chair, and my hands slide along the buttery leather. He sits and rotates his chair to the side and opens a brown folder, perusing it before he folds it closed. Then, with elbows on the desk, he clasps his hands in front of his chin.
“Beau, we need you to protect someone. You’ve come highly recommended. I remember you as a teenager. You were always dedicated to your schoolwork, sports, and to your girlfriend,” he says matter-of-factly. “It seems those characteristics have translated into adulthood.”
Then Mr. Boyd gauges my reaction, raising an eyebrow before continuing. The military taught me to keep a face devoid of emotion when being interrogated. Don’t give anyone anything to use against you. So I sit stoic, wondering why he would care if I was committed to my high school girlfriend.
“You were a Navy Seal, and now own your own business and provide security for high-profile individuals,” he continues.
I don’t respond; another thing the military taught me: don’t speak unless you’re required to do so. We stare at each other until he drops the bomb on me. “Vanessa Barron needs protection.”
Rage shoots through my veins, although I remain calm on the outside. What has she done? Why does she need protection? Is she back because she got into trouble in Nashville?
“Why?” I ask, as I feel a small twitch of my jaw.
“Honestly, I’m not sure, but Mr. Barron seemed to think she may be in harm’s way. No one could keep her as safe as you. You’re the only one around here has the special training you’ve had. Nobody knows the distillery better than you, and your knowledge of her… well, let’s call it spirit.” He chuckles. “She needs you, Beau.”
That’s all it takes. Three words.She. Needs. You.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Boyd gives me some basic information. Her father had documents on file that said if he was ever gone longer than three days without contact, these emergency measures were to be put in place. He hands me a typed document.
Vanessa Barron will be promoted to Chief Executive Officer in my absence.She will require security detail that is invested in her safety.Barron Distillery’s Security Team will be fully cooperative and answer to her new security detail.
“Why does he think she needs security?” I ask.
“We don’t know. He asked us to draw up these documents and we do what our clients ask, within reason. But there’s also a handwritten note.”
Mr. Boyd places the folded blue card between his thick fingers, motioning for me to take it. I open it and read,‘Beau Landry is the only person who can protect her. Please see that he takes the job.’
“Will you take the job?”
“Yes.”
Because she needs me.
ChapterThree
VANESSA
My dad built a life-sized statue of his favorite racehorse outside our offices and it’s a painful reminder that he’s missing. Or is he? Did he meet someone? Is he hiding out? Has he done something against the law? Did someone kidnap him? My mind is on an endless, oblong Nascar track, looping around and around.
The attorney gave me a sealed letter and said I’m only to open it after I’ve met my new bodyguard. My finger strums around my aqua-colored stainless steel cup that reads,I don’t give a damn.I snicker every time I look at it. It reminds me that I’m a strong woman and can handle anything thrown my way.
When I check my watch, it displays 9:59 a.m. I move across the stained walnut floor and peer out the window, watching the activity outside. A tour of the Kissing Springs Chamber of Commerce is coming through today. It’s an annual event where the business leaders in our community tour the grounds, do a bourbon tasting of our newest release, and have lunch. They come up with ideas on how to continue promoting the Bourbon Capital of the world. Currently, they’re taking pictures in front of the statue.
“Ms. Barron, your ten o’clock appointment is here. Should I send him in?” Dorothy Potts, my secretary, asks.
“Yes, please.”
The door opens, but I don’t turn around. I want to let this bodyguard know that I’m not afraid and can stand on my own two feet. I’m not some damsel in distress. The door clicks closed, and I’m completely at his disposal. If he wanted to off me, or if my secretary was lying, this would give the person the perfect opportunity.
