Page 23 of Guarding the Star

At eight thirty, Iris shuffles out of her room. Early for her. Shorts. Too short, showing the bottom curve of her ass. An old college T-shirt, no bra, though I shouldn't be noticing that.

She sees me sitting in the kitchen. Stops for a second. Smiles before she opens the fridge, grabs the orange juice, and drinks straight from the carton.

Last night, there was no TV on. I don't know if that's good or bad.

“Sleep well?” I ask, almost on autopilot.

“No. You? Are you going to put it in the report? Like… 'Protected subject unable to sleep. Cause: bodyguard said four sentences in a car and destroyed her nervous system.' I thought we were going to talk this morning,” she grunts, sitting across from me.

She's pissed. Or disappointed. Probably both. She grabs a mug and fills it from the pot I just brewed. Burns her tongue on the first sip. Winces, but says nothing.

I don't answer her question. I promised we'd talk, but I can't talk about what she wants until I can think straight. And thinking straight requires not being in the same kitchen as Iris Vance in short shorts and no bra.

“You have practice in an hour and a half,” I remind her before heading to my room, feeling her eyes track every step.

***

The club facilities are safe ground. Security at the entrance, people around at all times. An active surveillance protocol we've set up, though she doesn't know about it.

We sit down for a quick coffee with Zoe, Tessa, and Tina.

“How was the gala?” Tina asks, taking a small sip from her mug. “You two left pretty early.”

“Great,” Iris says. “Paula can dance. That was the revelation of the night. Who knows what other surprises she's hiding from me. Or what promises she won't keep,” she adds, and the edge in her voice could cut glass.

Practice runs long, and I sit in the stands with my laptop open. Iris looks for me three times. The first time, I look away. The second, I pretend to be reading. The third, I'm reading for real, though I catch her from the corner of my eye.

At noon, she walks out of the locker room and finds me waiting by the car.

“Eat at a restaurant or at home?” she asks.

“Wherever you want.”

“You don't care?”

“Wherever you want, Iris,” I repeat.

She gets in the car and slams the door.

“How many times are you going to say my name like I'm a bank customer?” she snaps, voice rising. “Iris, I'm not—”

“'Wherever you want, Iris.' 'I'll keep that in mind, Iris.' 'The entrances are secure, Iris.' If you're going to keep this up, you can go to hell. I went to bed shaking last night. Literally. I got my hopes up, you told me we'd talk for real today, and all you've done is put more distance between us. And the worst part is I'm an idiot, and I let you, that I'm still sitting here waiting for you to say something nice like you're actually my girlfriend and not a bodyguard. God, I'm such a moron, I swear,” she explodes.

“I need time,” I admit.

“Time for what? To deal with what you feel? Are you going to tell me you didn't feel anything last night? Come on, Paula. Don't hide like a little kid. And they say I'm the immature one,” she says. “We're eating at the club cafeteria. With luck, some teammates will be there, and I won't have to be alone with you,” she adds, getting out and slamming the door again.

***

In the afternoon, Zoe brings Wesley to the apartment. The kid grabs Iris's legs, screaming something that sounds like “Iris,” though given how things are between us, it could also mean “crisis.”

She picks him up, smells his head, and closes her eyes. I've seen this ritual dozens of times, but I can't help smiling whenever she does it.

“Damn!” Wesley says out of nowhere.

“No, no, boss, no. That word doesn't exist. Who taught you that?”

“You!” he answers, cracking up.