Page 7 of Guarding the Star

“I know you can't answer. I understand. But I want you to know I'm here. Always. Not like the others.”

“Today I saw you at the coffee shop on Third and Pike. Your hair was down. You looked beautiful. You didn't see me because it's not time yet.”

It's not time yet.

I repeat the phrase under my breath and underline it in red pen.

This isn't some random troll. This isn't an obsessed fan who registers as low-level threat. This is someone who has already moved to active physical surveillance. That phrase means there will come a moment when they plan to show up in front of Iris Vance in person.

I close my eyes, try to sleep, and the same goddamn image comes flooding back.

Valentina.

It's never a full memory. It never is. Just fragments from that day. Her black hair on the pillow of a hotel in Ciudad Juárez. The notebook she always carried in her bag. How she bit her thumb when she was thinking.

The bad part is what comes after.

The dirt road. The overturned car. Broken glass catching the midday sun. Valentina on the ground, her shirt soaked through with blood, eyes open but not seeing me. My voice screaming her name while my hands tried to stop bullet wounds that were already fatal.

Three years.

My body still reacts. My pulse spikes. My muscles lock. The scar on the back of my left hand aches like the glass is still lodged in there.

I shut the door. It's a technique I taught myself, because the ones they gave me in therapy didn't work fast enough. I picture a steel door. I push it. I close it. I throw the bolt. The image stays on the other side. Valentina stays on the other side. The guilt stays on the other side.

What stays on this side is me, sitting on a plane to Florida to protect a woman who doesn't want to be protected.

To pretend I'm her partner and keep the professional distance I swore I'd never break again.

Should be easy.

I open the folder again. My hand finds the photo on instinct. Iris Vance celebrating that goal. The jersey in her hand. The ponytail flying. Her mouth open in a scream of celebration.

I look at it three seconds longer than I need to before I close the folder.

Chapter 3

Iris

I show up to the meeting on time, sober, and freshly showered. If Hades doesn't give me an award for this, the woman has no heart.

Alex Drummond is already seated at the table, though with her, you can never tell if she's pleased or the exact opposite. My coach stands by the whiteboard, arms crossed. She looks at me like I'm a puppy that just learned not to pee on the rug, but she still doesn't fully trust.

I pick the seat farthest from Alexandra. That woman gives me the creeps. I cross my legs. Check my nails. I need a manicure bad, but that's a problem for future Iris.

“Where's my girlfriend?” I ask, starting to get impatient.

“On her way,” the club director replies.

“You still haven't told me if she's cute,” I say.

Nobody laughs. Figures. These two are a tough crowd, and it wasn't that funny.

I try to picture the woman they're about to shove into my life. Someone big, for sure. Six-three, dark suit, square jaw, zero sense of humor. Probably at least twenty years older than me. I'll give her a nickname. Call her something ridiculous until she gives up and leaves me alone.

And I'll ditch her. She better be ready for that.

The door opens.