Page 7 of Rescuing His Forever
By the end of it, I’m surrounded by mostly men and a few women dressed in various shades of black and gray power suits. I know a few of them are skeptical, but the vast majority of people sitting around the conference table are smiling and nodding along. One woman takes out a tissue and dabs at her eyes. I didn’t think my presentation was that good, but I hope the emotional response translates to more donations.
My boss and the director of Sea Change steps up to the front of the room, thanking me and shaking my hand. I nod and give her a smile, hoping I did a good job. When she gives me a subtle thumbs up, I know we must have a few big checks coming our way.
She talks for a few more minutes about the budget and more of the nitty-gritty business side of things while I let my mind wander. It’s always such a rush to share my story and to know I’m making waves. I smile at my joke, even though I know it makes me a total dork.
We’re all dismissed, and in the rush of people exiting the conference room, I somehow lose sight of Keaton. He was right outside the room the entire time. I didn’t dare look over at him, but I felt his steady, soothing presence nonetheless.
A wicked thought occurs, and even though I know it’s a bad idea, I can’t resist. My short stature is to my advantage as I hide amongst the throng of suits leaving the Sea Change building.
Once outside, I look around, half-expecting Keaton to jump out and drag me back. When he doesn’t appear, I decide to treat myself to a latte and a scone from the cute little cafe across the street.
As soon as I walk into the cafe, an unsettling sensation washes over me. I feel eyes on me, but not like when Keaton is watching me. I’m probably just being paranoid. As much as I hate to admit it, the threatening letters have gotten to me. Still, I have to stay strong. I can’t let anyone know I have a weakness or can be taken down with a few words on a piece of paper.
I straighten my back and hold my chin high as I step up to the counter and order my drink and scone. After waiting at the end of the counter for my latte and food, I make my way to a table against the back wall. Even though I’m tucked away in the corner, I still feel vulnerable, like anyone could come sit down next to me.
It’s silly for me to be this upset, this scared, especially when I dodged my bodyguard - again - to get this little slice of peace and quiet. Only, I’m not at peace. I’m on high alert, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling with anxiety.
I lift my latte to my lips, frowning when I spill a bit on the table. I didn't realize my hands were shaking that badly.
The door to the cafe swings open, and the all-too-familiar silhouette of my giant bodyguard fills the entryway. His eyes narrow as he scans the tables and booths until he finally sees me. That glow in his eyes intensifies, and I know I should run. Or should I stay? Let Keaton watch out for me, if only for a little bit.
No, he’ll be gone soon enough, and I’ll be on my own, like always.
Keaton stomps toward me, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. I panic, my heart wanting to stay here while my head is screaming at me to run like hell. I have a split second to decide what to do, and the flight part of my brain takes over, propelling me from my seat and launching me headlong into the back dish room of the cafe. It’s the only exit Keaton isn’t blocking.
I get a few strange looks from the staff members, but mostly, everyone looks bored and unamused. Fine by me. I see the side exit on the far right of the dish room, and I sprint in that direction, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins and nearly sending me into a panic attack.
I burst through the door, tripping over my feet as I stumble outside. I can’t stop. Can’t slow down. I pump my arms and legs, running at a dead sprint for the first time since middle school gym class. It’s as awful as I remember.
I find myself running toward my apartment as if on autopilot.
“Roxy!” Keaton calls out. Damn, that man is fast. “Roxy, stop!”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away, focusing solely on making it to my apartment where I can shut the door and keep Keaton and my feelings for him out.
The shitty apartment complex I’ve called home for the last year comes into view, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Until I get closer and see my door hanging off of its hinges. I come to an abrupt stop, ice flooding my veins, followed by a crippling sense of being violated.
The more I see, the harder it is to breathe. My living room window is shattered, and I can see that everything has been overturned, emptied, and trampled on. Clothes are strewn about, along with pieces of broken plates and cups.
I’m stuck, unable to move, breathe, or blink.
“Are you okay?” Keaton says from behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder. I jerk away from him on instinct, and he holds his hands up in front of him in a sign of surrender. “It’s me. I’m here,” he says, his voice more soothing than I’ve ever heard it before.
Keaton holds out his hand, and I take it in mine, needing his comfort right now. He pulls me closer, then tucks me behind him, keeping one hand on my hip.
“Stay close, but stay behind me, okay?”
I nod, relieved to have someone else here who knows what to do. As independent as I like to think I am, I still feel like an aimless child some days.
Keaton searches the perimeter and then steps inside with his gun drawn. I’m fisting the back of his shirt, not wanting us to be separated.
Keaton relaxes when he’s satisfied that no one is inside. Until he sees the letter on my kitchen table. The envelope is just like all the others—“Roxy” is spelled out using individual letters cut from magazines and glued in place. If I had any doubts about who was behind this break-in, they’re gone now.
Keaton guides me to my bed, which has a clear spot on it. He motions for me to sit, kneeling in front of me, peering up into my eyes. “Do you believe me now?” he asks softly. “Your safety is at risk. I’m not sure how else to get through to you.”
“I believe you,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I-I’m sorry.”
Keaton places his hands on my thighs, drawing my attention to the movement. He starts to pull away, but I put my hands on top of his. Our eyes meet, and I see a different side of my growly bodyguard. He’s worried. About me?