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“Beau, you can’t protect me from anything if you don’t have any energy,” she says, popping out her hip in a royal-blue, tight-fitting skirt that hits just above the knee. Her legs are long and still lightly tanned from summer.
My eyes rake over her body, admiring how professional and tempting she looks. Clearing my throat, I refuse. “I’ve learned to go without food for days. I’ve learned … how to survive bombs, friends dying, heartbreak that you will never know. I can go without a meal.” My voice is harsher than I expect, but none of those heartbreaks are as lasting as the one blow she dealt me.
The area just below her chin trembles as she darts her eyes toward the door. “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”
Nope, not a chance.
My mind clicks like an old film projector, playing the images that broke me. I thought about how I would act and what I would say. How I would act as if she didn’t bother me. But I let her see a tiny fracture when I was unable to get the sentence out without hesitating.
“I’m not discussing our past. It was so long ago, it’s as if it never happened.” I fight back the feeling of being strangled. Six years spent discovering her likes, dislikes, and learning how to let her be a free spirit without tempering her love for me. Her eyes glass over as she drops her head. Hurting her feels worse than getting hurt. “Let’s just keep this strictly business. I forgave you a long time ago.”
Her chin rises from her chest. “Really?”
No.
I give her a slight nod, uncertain of whether forgiveness will ever have a home in my heart, but one thing is clear: I can’t bear to inflict pain upon her when she’s burdened with the weight of the company on her shoulders. It’s simply not how I’m wired.
What I’m not expecting is for her to jump toward me, or to wrap her arms around my neck, but that’s exactly what she does. My hands fly to her back. My nose is stuck in her thick, curly tendrils, and I inhale her familiar, fresh floral scent. But then I move my hands from her back to her arms and push back.
She smooths her skirt with her palms, a dejected expression on her face. “Sorry. I won’t bringusup again.
My rib cage teeters on the brink of breaking open, the “Vanessa fog” enveloping me completely. Anytime we were together, I felt as if I was living in a constant daze of love, fun, happiness.
I hand her a form for her to fill out. “I need to know your schedule. Every hour of the day.”
She reads over it and shrugs. “Okay.”
“And I’ll need to come to your place tonight and go through the same details as I’m doing here today.”
This time, she nods, no words.
“Unlock your phone and hand it over.” I put out my hand, palm up. She reaches for her phone that’s laying on her desk, and then places it into my flattened palm, careful our fingers don’t touch. I install a location tracker app that’s outside of the phone maker.
“Vanessa, no surprises. Understood? Don’t go anywhere without telling me about it first.”
She opens her mouth, then shuts it. She twiddles with her earlobe, something she only did after she laughed. It’s a stark reminder that Vanessa and I have long been over. We’ve grown up and apart. We no longer know every detail about each other. I don’t know if she likes sushi or if she likes to two-step. Or why this ear pulling is no longer just when she laughs.
“Are you going to be around every hour?” she asks, annoyed with me after only twenty minutes in my presence. However, her tone is sprinkled with fear.
A surge of emotions crawls over my skin. “Not every hour, but I have to know your whereabouts in case the need arises. We don’t know what or who we’re dealing with. I’m headed to my office to load the security feeds and integrate them into my surveillance system. I made sure to add my updated contact details to your phone, so don’t hesitate to reach out if you need me. And please remember to fill out the schedule, covering both day and night.”
With that, I walk out the door, holding my head high. Practice to succeed. Always act like nothing bothers you.
I sit in my office and try to bury my emotions. I start running scripts of computer codes that’ll sync her office surveillance to my phone. It requires extreme focus, and it’s the only thing keeping me from breaking down.
I’ve loved her since the sixth grade.
ChapterFive
VANESSA
Iwork well past nine, trying to get a grasp on how large our bourbon business has become. Dad built an empire. Bourbon is fashionable again, like it was in the sixties, and my intentions are to make Barron’s the bourbon of the future. It’s time to make him proud of more than just being his little girl.
But in reality, I’m attempting to not think about my new bodyguard. The boy that gave me a promise ring every year on our anniversary. When we were thirteen it was made of braided grass. At fourteen, it was made from bent, intertwined paperclips. He said, “It’s us, Nessa. Forever.”
They’re still in a box in the top of my closet. The last time I checked, the grass was brittle and brown, and I was afraid it would break if I touched it—just like my relationship with Beau.
I pack up the new laptop and a newly bottled bourbon that’s been aging for twelve years. The master distiller suggested that I have the first bottle of Barron’s 12, Special Reserve—my dad’s pride and joy.
