Page 8 of Guarding the Star

And she's almost nothing like what I was picturing.

She's got to be around my age. Dark hair pulled back in a bun that looks engineered so nothing moves without permission. Warm brown skin. Dark eyes.

Taller than me, but not the six-three I'd imagined. Athletic build. Comfortable clothes.

But what gets me is that she doesn't even look at me. First thing she does is scan the room, then lock eyes with Alexandra Drummond. Like I don't exist. And I'm not used to that.

“Iris, this is Paula Delgado,” the club director announces. “She's the specialist assigned to your case.”

She sits across from me, back straight, and gives a quick nod. If we have to pass for a couple, this is going to be rough, because she's colder than an iceberg. Impossible to tell what she's thinking. Most neutral face I've ever seen, and Jade Herrera plays some serious poker faces.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, flashing my best Instagram smile.

“Likewise,” she says. One word. That's it.

Right. There's no way anyone buys this woman as my girlfriend. Mine are always way more expressive.

“I've read your file,” Paula goes on, opening a folder identical to Alex's. “I have some questions.”

“Go ahead. I'm all yours. After all, I'm your girlfriend now,” I joke. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“Have you changed any of your routines in the last six months?”

“My routines?”

“Any kind of routine. Have you changed anything since the messages started?”

“No.”

“Why not?” she presses.

“Because I didn't know the messages were a problem until yesterday.”

“The messages have been going on for six months,” she reminds me.

“The messages have been weird for six months. Not dangerous for six months. There's a difference. Look, I get that your job is to take this stuff seriously. But I get hundreds of messages a day. People saying they love me, they hate me, I'm their inspiration, I'm a fucking embarrassment, and a party girl. Other times they call me a drunk and way worse. If I stop to evaluate every single one, I don't have a life,” I tell her.

“That's precisely the problem,” she says, calm enough that I want to throw my chair at her head. “Someone with your level of exposure needs a professional filter. Deleting messages and moving on isn't enough.”

“Great, so that's what you're here for, right? To be my filter.”

“Among other things.”

“And what are the other things? Because so far the only thing I know is I have to pretend we're dating, and that's going to be hard as hell.”

Paula doesn't react. No raised eyebrow. No tension in her jaw. Nothing. It's like talking to a wall, except walls don't hold your stare without blinking.

Hades steps in, thank God.

“Paula will explain the security protocol. Listen. No interruptions. No jokes. Can you do that?” she asks, eyebrows up.

“I can try.”

“Then try really hard.”

The bodyguard talks and talks. Her voice isn't loud or quiet, fast or slow. Exactly the right volume and speed to deliver information without wasting a single syllable. She tells me she'll be with me outside of practices and games. That she'll review my routes, my schedule, my contacts. That she'll have access to my social media to monitor the stalker. That in public, we're a couple. That in private, we keep professional distance.

While she talks, I watch her hands. I don't mean to. There's a scar across the back of one of them, and I wonder how she got it. I should be listening to what she's saying instead of staring at her hands. This is objectively weird.