Page 64 of The Bodyguard's Fall

Tate looked over at James and Sadie and pointed to the one bale of hay in the middle of the wagon. “You guys are really going all out for us.”

James smiled but looked to Sadie to answer.

“Sorry about that. We’ll have more seats for the festival, but for now, this is all we’ve got. We’re still waiting on that last load of Walker hay to get here,” she quipped.

“That’s alright.” Tate sat down on the hay and motioned for me to do the same. “Olivia likes it better this way.”

I gave him a light elbow to his stomach. But when he shifted forward, my arm smacked against something hard and metal against his back hip. I looked over at him in surprise and was rewarded with raised eyebrows.

I guess he did have places where he secretly carried guns.

“And this is a full-service ride,” Sadie said, handing Tate a blanket. “Sorry, we just have one. The others are being washed.”

Sadie climbed into the front of the wagon with James while we spread the blanket out over both of us. I leaned back directly into his arm he had wrapped loosely around my waist. It was casual, cool, and breezy. It made us look like we were together while also giving me the option to stay how I was or lean closer, if I wanted.

I wanted to lean closer.

The tug and pull of the wagon almost demanded it. He was strong and warm and just irreverent enough to probably tease me about it later. But I leaned my head against his chest anyway. Except, he didn’t tease me or even smirk. Instead, he adjusted his position to make me more comfortable.

I was dealing with an undercover cop who could play a role like this with his eyes closed. I was not an undercover cop, however, and would be implementing some definite boundaries on my end when we got home. My heart needed clear lines to help avoid the confusion a warm and strong chest seemed to create.

I didn’t think Tate ever fully relaxed. His body held tense as his eyes were, no doubt, raking through the thick trees in the woods. Always at the ready. For me.

The wagon hit a bump in the road, jolting me forward. Tate tightened his grip, and I instinctively snuggled closer.

Okay.

It was Friday.

Everybody knew that new goals always started on a Monday.

Will: This shouldn’t have to be said, but I don’t need any pictures of the two of you “undercover” anymore. Why are you sitting that close on the wagon?

Tate: She’s cold.

Will: Please. I can tell she’s faking. She would never smile that much sitting next to you.

Tate: She’s a good actress.

Will: Don’t touch my sister. Or at least, don’t send me any more pictures.

When we arrived at the farm, we were ushered into the gift shop, where we met up with James’s mom, heard the maple spiel, and tasted the different grades of syrup. Tate only fidgeted slightly like a caged animal throughout the presentation. Mae Carver sweetly answered all my questions, waiting patiently as I jotted down some notes. Eventually, we were released outside to take a self-guided tour through the woods. Sadie and James waved us on, hanging back to help his mom, and told us to take our time. They’d meet up with us for the ride home when we were finished.

There were a few small groups of tourists scattered about the farm, looking at the vacuum pumps and plastic pipes attached to trees and reading the signs. We lingered at a few. I read almost everything while Tate remained ever watchful.

It all felt so ridiculous.

Having a bodyguard in a place as wholesome and friendly as this.

I wrapped my scarf around my neck and nestled closer to Tate. The air felt much colder in the thick of the trees. The leaves crunched beneath my feet as we strolled down the dirt pathway. All of that, mixed with the damp moisture in the air, left me rejuvenated and giddy and feeling almost positive that I’d dreamed the entire past six months with Leroy.

The tour had ended a few trees back, but we kept meandering down the dirt pathway, his hand holding mine, our fingers linked. I hardly thought about the hand-holding now. Before, it had been strange, but now…I liked it. It was the little things. The way he’d squeeze my hand when I took too long to answer a question. The way he helped me across fallen tree trunks without letting go. The way he kept holding my hand, tight in his, long after we’d passed the last tourist looking at trees.

Tate began looking around, confusion etched on his face.

“What?” I asked in mild alarm.

“I’m just checking my surroundings. This seems like the kind of place a guy might get taken advantage of when he’s out here all alone with a romance screenwriter.”