4

LENNOX

With my luggage in hand, I took the lead, climbing up two flights of narrow wooden stairs. Ashton, much to his dismay, had to follow behind me. I knew he would prefer to be the one leading, but for his own safety, I had to be in control this time.

Actually, every time we were together, I felt it was necessary for me to take the lead. It wasn't just because I was being pompous or arrogantly asserting myself. It was for his own good, to ensure he learned to trust and rely on me.

As we ascended the stairs, a thick silence hung between us. Neither of us was accustomed to such uncomfortable tension. You see, I never asked to be Ashton's bodyguard. I didn't apply for the position or submit any applications. It was a role I fell into at his mother's request.

I'm open to change. I embrace it. But if I had known that one of my favorite pastimes would be getting on Ashton Johnson's nerves, I might have hesitated to take on this job.

Another tense moment passed before Tony warned me about the size of my room. I couldn't help but smile because I had been in these townhouses many times before. They were identical. The second floor housed two bedrooms and the only bathroom, while the third floor was an attic bedroom. Everything else was crammed into the first floor.

Ashton resided in the third-floor attic of the other townhouse. His room was barely big enough to fit a full-sized bed, a bookshelf, and a dresser. Now, I was about to move into the identical version of that attic room. "I'll manage. It's the same size as yours," I replied, glancing back at him.

Just two steps below me stood one of the most beloved celebrities, confident yet visibly annoyed, with my fifty-pound suitcase effortlessly resting on his shoulders, like a soldier carrying a rucksack. He wasn't showing off his strength; he was just being practical. Creating more space for himself to navigate the incredibly narrow staircase.

His sculpted biceps strained against the fabric of his green t-shirt.

I couldn't help but smile wider. Most people would probably swoon at his feet in this moment, stumbling over their words, trying to win him over. But here he was, with me.

"If only your grammar matched your weightlifting skills," I teased, "you'd be unstoppable."

He shot back, "If only your wit were actually amusing, I'd be laughing."

My smile grew even wider. "I wasn't trying to make you laugh, wolf scout."

Tony let out a frustrated groan, but a hint of amusement flickered across his lips. His face contorted into a scowl as he expressed his annoyance.

"Do you feel better now?" I asked casually, continuing to climb the stairs.

If he had the use of his hands, he would have flipped me off without hesitation. However, he remained focused, carrying the suitcase effortlessly. He never struggled, displaying a level of grace and ease. It's no wonder he's often ranked as the hottest celebrity in numerous tabloids.

And it's true.

Ashton Johnson possesses eyes that resemble sharp blades of grass and a jawline so defined it could cut through glass. His features are striking enough to make him a coveted, almost statuesque figure even before considering his unbelievably attractive and well-built physique.

He has managed to occupy my thoughts in ways that Disney would surely disapprove of. It all started three years ago during his first semester of college.

At the time, I had just become his mother's personal bodyguard, and she had attended one of his swim meets. I sat on the bleachers, observing as he emerged from the collegiate pool, surrounded by Ivy League banners and Latin insignias decorating the walls.

As he straightened up, his muscles flexed, exuding confidence in his six-foot-two frame. Water droplets cascaded down his sun-kissed skin as he pulled his goggles to his head. His legs appeared more muscular, and his shoulders broader. In that moment, I realized Ashton Johnson had become a man.

From then on, his image infiltrated my mind during "personal" moments. Even the fact that I was his mother's bodyguard couldn't prevent my thoughts from wandering to vivid images of Ashton, unclothed and positioned provocatively on a bed. It happens—people unexpectedly enter your thoughts when you're in the heat of the moment.

Thankfully, I have refined taste.

When I found out I was assigned to his security detail, I didn't dwell on the fact that I felt attracted to him. It's inconsequential.

I could have a framed photograph of him that I pleasured myself to every night (which I don't), and it wouldn't affect my ability to perform my job at a hundred percent.

I am an exceptional bodyguard.

In fact, I'm one of the best, and nothing and no one will change the fact that I am dedicated to protecting him.

As silence envelops us once again, I reach the top of the staircase, where a single door awaits. I step into my new room, with Ashton closely following behind.

Whistling softly, I remark, "So, you decided not to mention that it's small, stuffy, and lacks any sense of appeal?" I toss my luggage beside the full-sized bed and give it a test bounce with my boot. Ah, it'll suffice. Just a mattress and box springs, nothing more.

Tony drops my suitcase by the door. “I’ll check the AC.”

“You don’t need to.” I rub my mouth, my lip piercing cold. Of course saying it’s hot would make him want to fix the temperature. “I appreciate the concern, but this is where you have to stop treating me like a guest or a sibling or really, anyone you feel the need to coddle and protect.” I hold his strong gaze. “And heat rises. We’re in an attic.”

“I’ve never known that before,” he says dryly. “I’ve just been living in the other attic for three years thinking, why the fuck does it feel like hell’s sauna? Thank God you’re here to share this unfound wisdom.”

I have to lean on the brick wall, my smile killing me.

Sarcasm is just written in his DNA. Equipped with verbal pitchforks at birth.

I gesture him onward with my hand. “Keep going.”

“I’m done.”

I roll my eyes before standing off the interior brick wall. They’re all brick, I realize. No mold, luckily, but the wooden ceiling rafters look like they haven’t been dusted in a decade.

I waft my shirt from my chest. It must be ninety degrees in here. It’s August in Philly, summer heat still present, but with the AC cranked low, downstairs is a freezer in comparison to the attic.

I’m about to open the only window, but Tony already aims for the windowsill. Completely ignoring my earlier speech.

I tilt my head upward, restraining another eye-roll.

He has no idea that I spent six hours being debriefed this morning about him and the entrances, exits, and windows of the two townhouses.

Omega’s recommendation: try to keep him away from windows. I’m not in a gated neighborhood anymore. Windows face public streets. Which means anyone can whip out a camera, point a lens upwards, and try to film him.

Tony’s 44th rule: I open my own windows.

And there lies the discord. His mom welcomed all the airbags that kept her safe, but Tony would rather live his life as unrestricted as possible.

It’s considered dangerous.

See, a very small space exits between freedom and safety for celebrities. I fight to give that middle-ground to a client. Especially for someone like Ashton who wants that freedom. But the more he tries to protect himself, the more we’re going to have a problem.

He can’t be his own bodyguard.

It’s impossible.

“For every one window you open, I get two,” I tell him.

He pauses by the windowsill. “Why the hell would I agree to a lopsided ratio that’s in your favor?”

“Because one-to-two is better than one-to-three.”

He licks his lips. “How about one-to-one?”

I swing my head from side-to-side, considering for less than a second. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” I concede early, surprising him, but I really just need him to let me in somewhere. One-to-one is better than one-to-zero.

My job is about split-second choices that affect his life. And I subtly and quickly weigh risks. My window faces an overgrown magnolia tree that obstructs the street view. Also, if he cared about being caught on camera, he wouldn’t actively go for the window right now.

I keep an attentive eye on him and remove my black sheets and bedding from my duffel.

Ashton wrenches the crusted window open, muscles flexed. The old wood screeches as it reaches the top.

When he returns to my mattress, he cracks his knuckles. Tony scans my bedding, his phone buzzing in his jean’s pocket, but it’s been vibrating since I first saw him today.

Earlier, I deduced that he’s ignoring his texts. “Do you need a minute?” I ask.

“For what?” He’s rigid, but he always stands at attention like he’s one breath from sprinting into a fight to save his family.

I nearly smile. “A minute to let this sink in.”

He inhales a strong breath. “Sure. Just change that minute to a century, and I’m good.”

I rest my knee on the mattress, my hand slipping in my pocket. “If I give you a century, you’ll be dead.”

“Great. You can guard my corpse.”

My brows hike. “That’s really adorable that you think I’ll outlive you.”

“Who says you won’t?”

“I’m five years older than you.” I find a piece of gum in my pocket and peel the foil. “And I’m still taller than you too.” By one inch.

“I forgot that in your fucked-up alternate universe, height determines one’s life expectancy.”

I laugh a short laugh and pop my gum in my mouth.

We stand still on either side of my bed, and neither of us really moves. I skim his wardrobe, just a green T-shirt, jeans, and a cheap canvas watch. He looks like he’s worth twenty bucks, not over a billion.

His quiet humility makes him seem even older.

My eyes flit up to his, and he visibly tenses.

One of us needs to speak. Not jokingly. No humor. I rarely have serious conversations with him, and to be his bodyguard, our serious talks need to outweigh all the others.

I rake both of my hands through my hair for the third time today. Pushing the strands back. “What are your plans for tonight?”

My words must wash over him like a bucket of ice water. He cringes, looks away and shakes his head a few times. “This is too fucking weird.”

I slowly chew my gum, thinking of how to approach this. I’m attaching myself to his life. Not the other way around. I’d be just as irked if our positions were reversed.

“Help me make my bed,” I say.

Ashton easily takes the detour, and he motions for me to give him the corner of the sheet. I do.

He’d never reject someone’s request for help. I can’t even remember the last time I asked him to help me with anything.

Most likely never.

We both hook my fitted sheet onto the corners of the mattress, and then I toss him a pillow and the black pillowcase.

I stare at him for a long moment, and his daggered green eyes lift to my brown. We slow down, and neither of us needs to speak to be aware of the taut air.

I know the source.

He knows the source.

It’s sex. Sex is the untouched topic.

Ashton Johnson is the most eligible bachelor in the country. It’s public knowledge that he frequents nightclubs and bars. It’s my job to hide how many one-night stands he has from the media.

The security team gossips, but Rodney never shared with anyone how many people Ashton fucks. I’m now supposed to safeguard that mystery. And whoever he wants to sleep with, I have the distinct responsibility of not only meeting them.

But interrogating them.

I’ll get them to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. I’ll stand guard at his bedroom door in case something bad happens. I’ll be there until they leave. I’ll even escort them out of his townhouse.

I’m the one who has to protect his cock. And his heart.

“You can trust me,” I tell him.

He shakes my pillow into its case. “I have to trust you. There’s a fucking difference.”

I pop a bubble and tilt my head back and forth, considering both statements. “You’ll see that you can trust me sooner rather than later. I work for you now. Not your mom.”

Those words loosen his shoulders a fraction. The whole security team often refers back to the parents since most of the Johnson, Haynes, and Walsh children are still underage. Out of fear of parental wrath and subsequent termination, many bodyguards would snitch on Ashton in a heartbeat.

I won’t.