She always runs three miles, so I’d gotten dressed and ready for that. But I hadn’t expected her to forego her first cup of coffee while informing me she didn’t have time to waste on it.
“Going to that dinner last night was unproductive,” she’d told me just moments ago as she placed her earbuds in and tapped her music selection on her phone, which was attached to her arm with a running band. Her voice had risen when the music came on. “I’ve got so much I need to catch up on.”
Then she whirled around and jetted out of the kitchen before I finished my shoe.
I bolt after her even though she’s relatively safe seeing as there are two Jameson men stationed outside. Surprisingly, I find it amusing and endearingly cute that she’s even more serious about business this morning. It probably stems from her actually letting her metaphorical hair down last night.
She might want to deny it—even try to purge it by running head-first into her work as an escape, but Barrett had relaxed last night. I’ve never seen her that way. Quick to laugh—she’s got a great fucking laugh—and she’d been a pleasure to dance with. I’d been lucky enough to be her partner several times.
But it had been more fun just to talk to her in a loose, casual environment.
Once, when Barrett went off to the powder room, the president had even sidled up to me and slyly whispered, “You’re good for her, Cruce.” I’d stiffened, not liking the implication in his words.
“Just doing my job, sir,” I’d replied, making sure my tone stayed flat and detached.
When he’d snickered, I felt like punching him for being so astute, but the idea of spending the rest of my life in prison had kept my fists clenched at my side. Clearly, Jonathan Alexander saw what I was feeling.
I’d been having a wonderful time with Barrett, which could only spell disaster.
While she’d woken up this morning ready to blaze new trails in her research, I’d opened my eyes and immediately wanted to put distance between us.
Of course, not the literal kind since I’m bound to my duty as her protector. I take the front porch steps two at a time, then make a sharp right to follow her normal route. She’s only half a block in front of me, her short blond ponytail bobbing as she sets her pace.
My legs are longer, though. By the time she reaches the first intersection, I’ve already caught up to her.
But I don’t run beside Barrett. I always hang back about five yards so I can keep an eye on our surroundings. Her residential neighborhood is quiet as expected on a Saturday morning—the usual bustle of an early weekday absent. A few people speed-walk toward the closest Metro station, cars creep slowly by, and a couple of early risers are getting in their runs. Today, there’s no wait time to cross at intersections, so we maintain a steady pace.
I’ve never had difficulty focusing on my job. Case in point… I shot a man dead without a moment’s hesitation because I was so attuned to Alexander’s safety I hadn’t thought twice about it. It’s why I’m so good at what I do.
Admittedly, though… it’s a bit of a struggle to keep my eyes off Barrett’s ass as she runs in front of me. Let’s face it… she has a phenomenal ass. Seeing the relaxed, fun side of her last night while she’d been so elegantly sexy in her dress, makes her delicious curves harder to ignore.
We make it three more blocks. Per her usual route, Barrett hangs a right which leads us into a small park. The winding path is bordered with cherry trees that dropped their blossoms several weeks ago.
We make one loop around the park before Barrett starts the backward route to her townhome.
I follow along—keeping my eyes firmly off her ass—and constantly scan our surroundings as we chew up the blocks back to her place.
It’s why I note the silver van as it approaches from our right at the intersection up ahead. It eases to a full stop, then turns right, now traveling in the same direction we are but about twenty yards ahead. The side of the van says “Stanley Movers”.
After pulling into a parallel parking spot, the passenger gets out. He’s wearing a cream-colored jumpsuit, the type of uniform movers might wear. Hurrying to the rear double doors, he opens them and reaches inside. He pulls out one of those quilted moving blankets that protects furniture, then starts to unfold it. I pick up my pace only slightly, not convinced this is anything but a couch being moved.
Barrett speeds up a bit now since we’re only five or so blocks from her home. She likes to kick it at the end, and I adjust accordingly.