by Hazel Jacobs
Extending my hand, I dig deep to find my voice. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
I’ve had worse starts.
He looks at my hand for a moment and frowns deeper like I’ve done something wrong. Which I haven’t, have I? I’m not drooling, am I? Shit! What if I’m drooling?
Finally, he takes my hand, and I have a few moments to squeal internally at how strong his fingers feel before he drops it. “Blake West.” His voice is like honey, and I want to coat myself in it.
“Yeah, I… oh… you’re sitting? Okay.”
He takes the seat in front of me, but not before taking off his overcoat to reveal a long-sleeved shirt that hugs his athletic body and makes my brain short-circuit for a moment. Then he sits down, and it isn’t until he’s resting his elbows on the table in front of him that I realize I’m still standing. I scramble to sit.
“So, nice to meet you,” I say.
“You said that already.”
“Well, would you rather I tell you that it’s not nice?”
He shrugs, looking away from me and scanning the crowded tables on either side of us. “Doesn’t bother me.”
Okay, so that’s… disappointing.
It’s always a bummer when I meet a handsome man only to find he’s a bit of an asshole. I could give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s just having a bad day, but at the same time, his attitude is not really making me want to. Besides, the way his browline dips over his eyes and the grim set of his jaw gives me the impression he doesn’t smile much. How can someone be pleasant to be around if they don’t smile?
“So, Blake, it’s…”
Shit! I almost tell him it’s nice to meet him. Again. Because I’m a fucking lunatic, apparently, and I’m stuck on a loop like a broken record.
“… short-notice, I know, but I’m glad we could make the time to meet.”
“The firm makes the appointments.”
“And you keep them. Good job!” Sometimes, when I meet someone particularly unpleasant, my brain goes in the opposite direction, and I become sickeningly sweet in a really passive-aggressive way. My parents think it’s a character flaw, and Shane finds it hilarious. “Really, I’m very glad to meet you. Have you done a lot of this kind of work before?”
He frowns even more deeply, which I hadn’t thought could be possible. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve been on leave for a while. I wasn’t supposed to take this job. A buddy of mine was assigned to you, but when your manager changed the dates, they called me in instead.”
It’s the most words he’s said yet, and they’re not doing a thing to make me feel any better about this arrangement. “Well, your buddy is missing out because we’re going to have loads of fun.”
Blake looks like he’s seriously considering jabbing a fork in his jugular and ending it all, and I consider handing him mine. It’s a strange situation to be in. My hormones are telling me to climb over the table and place myself directly in this lap, which is a level of attraction I’m not used to feeling when I see a man for the first time. My brain is telling me to be as cheerful as possible to offset the douchebag vibes he’s giving off. It’s also telling my hormones to stop because this man, while gorgeous, is acting like a jerk, and I’ve never been into jerks.
Can a beautiful face offset personality? I would have said ‘no’ this morning.
Thankfully, the waiter comes and saves me from myself. I take the sunglasses off and finally look at Blake without the glasses between us. His skin is paler, and when I put the glasses down, I see that one of his sleeves has rolled up revealing the black edge of a tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos, but I’ve always wanted one. Maybe Melpomene and Thalia or the musical notations for ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’
Blake orders a black coffee because, of course, he does—black with no sugar. He glances back at me and then squints at the sunglasses I’ve left on the table between us.
“Your manager said you’ve been dealing with some trouble?”
All business. I can work with that.
“Just some issues at school. Some people wanted selfies, and it got a bit out of hand.”
“I can’t protect you if you insist on taking selfies with everyone who asks.”
“Well, that’s… fair, but in my defense, I haven’t, um… insisted anything. We just met.”
“I want to make myself perfectly clear. There’s only so much I can do, and if you’re going to put yourself in harm’s way, then you’ll have to accept the consequences.”
I tilt my head at him trying to get a sense of whether he’s frowning at me or just at the general situation. This is technically a job interview, after all. Magnus had set this up so I could get to know my bodyguard before we start the press rounds before my tour. I would never have thought anyone would be so surly in this situation. It’s almost like he’s trying to make the worst impression possible. Why is he like this?
“Is this one of those deals where you try really hard to be mean to me, so I’ll ask for you to be replaced?”
Blake just stares. His eyes flicker back up to mine and hold my gaze, and I find myself chewing my tongue to give my brain something to focus on instead of the pinkish hue of his lips. They look so damn kissable, and it’s taking everything I have in me not to lean forward and assume the flirting pose.
Because this isn’t a flirty time.
No, Natalie.
Bad Natalie!
“I’m sorry, what?” Blake asks.
“You seem like you really don’t want to be here,” I say. Deliberately, I lean back in my seat taking the opposite approach to the one my brain and libido want and grab my drink to take a sip. Because, apparently, I’m fucking thirsty as hell. “It’s okay if you don’t. I’m fine with it, but you don’t have to be rude to me, though.”
He taps the table in almost the same beat I’d been tapping when he’d called me. Finally, he leans forward a little in his chair.
“It’s not that I don’t want to be here,” he says, simply. “I just want to make this clear.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “This is a working relationship. I’m not here to be your friend. If you saw The Bodyguard and thought this would be some lasting, deep connection, you’re wrong.”
“First of all, thank you for casting me as Whitney Houston in your The Bodyguard fantasy. I would kill for her cheekbones.” Blake clicks his tongue and looks away from me as I go on. “Second, at what point did I give you the idea I want a Bodyguard type scenario?”
He shrugs, the sleeves of his shirt rising a bit more to reveal more of that mysterious tattoo. “A lot of green celebrities think it’s going to be champagne and caviar, flying first class, and fucking their entourage.”
I think about Shane, my only entourage since I started this ridiculous adventure, and the thought of us fucking makes me want to laugh out loud. It would be so awkward, and Shane would probably spend the entire time complimenting me on my toned abs while resolutely not looking at my tits.
“I’m not green, Blake, I’m brown. And I’m not in this for the champagne and caviar.”
“Right, because social media stars are just doing it for the fans?”
“Only if bodyguards are just doing it for the aesthetic,” I reply. I’ve still got a smile on my lips, and I have no idea how it’s still there. He’s pushing every one of my buttons. The fact that the tight shirt is stretched tantalizingly over his chest is also not helping matters.
This is bad. So very bad.
Blake seems to think over what I said, though I can’t tell if he thinks I’ve said something profound or if he’s just trying to unravel whether he’s been insulted.
“Besides, fucking my entourage sounds like a lot of work,” I go on. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do for the tour, and I really don’t have time for it.”
Blake’s facial expression doesn’t change which is really starting to infuriate me. It’s bad enough I’ve been blessed with a permanent frowner as my new bodyguard, but how the hell am I supposed to talk t
o him if he won’t even crack a smile?
“Just as long as you know not to try it,” Blake says.
“I promise, your virtue is safe,” I tell him. “So, are you okay with talking about something else? Like whether you need to come to my classes or just to press things?”
I’m trying to make it professional again aiming for a jovial tone even as I feel his half-frown, half-glare boring into me.
And, really, why is he the one bringing up The Bodyguard? Why is he so insistent on making sure I understand this is a business relationship? I wouldn’t have thought anything different if he hadn’t brought it up. Yes, my surprisingly vocal hormones are pretty excited about the prospect of getting to be near him for several hours a day, but I would never have entertained the idea of trying anything. That’s the sort of thing that only happens in the movies. Just like a girl going all slack-jawed at the sight of a good-looking man. That stuff never happens in real life.
The point is, he shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. He’s the one who made it weird, not me. I tell myself that a couple of times to make sure I have it clear in my mind so later on, when I explain myself to Shane, I’ll be able to convince him of it, too.
“If you’re having problems with your classmates, then I should be there.”
“Great. You’ll need a pass to come on campus, assuming you’re going to take me as a client?” I add, unsure. “Or is your firm going to send someone else? Because, as I said, you don’t need to be here.”
Because, really, we haven’t gotten off to the best start. Even though his ‘buddy’ has a conflicting schedule, surely the firm will be able to send someone else if necessary? I’m torn between wanting him to stay and wanting him gone. I can’t decide whether it will be better to get rid of this man who makes my body tremble in a way it never has before, or keep him as close as possible so I can try to figure out what it is about him that makes me feel this way.
The waiter comes back and gives Blake his coffee. Blake doesn’t take his eyes off of me, and I am once again hit with the feeling he’s scanning me, taking everything in.
I wonder what he can tell just by looking at me. Can he tell my fingers are aching to reach out and touch? Can he tell his light-colored eyebrows make me want to lean forward and press my cheek to his face so I can feel them on my skin? Was there ever a The Bodyguard porno? I’ll have to ask Shane, he’ll know.
“It’ll be me,” he says, finally. “I look forward to working with you.”
And I would have believed him if he’d managed to say the words in any other tone. It’s like he’s reciting a script after only a week’s worth of acting lessons, and he still has a while to go before he can make it believable.
“Great!” I reply, wondering how long I’ll be able to keep up the passive-aggressive cheerfulness.
Blake follows me to classes for the rest of the week as well as my first press interview. He is determined and ridiculously stoic the entire time. The first time Shane saw a photo of us both on a gossip blog, he said the sex would be just as good if Blake covered up his face since he’d probably be frowning all the time.
“Or you can do doggie style. Just make sure he’s a gentleman and helps you finish.”
“Why don’t you sleep with him since you’re putting so much thought into this?”
“I’m saving myself for the hot manager, the hot bodyguard is all yours.”
The hot manager, for his part, has already arranged a couple of photo shoots for Shane and several auditions for commercials. Shane has flirted more in the past week than he has in his entire life, and, though Magnus clearly shares an interest, Shane keeps getting shut down.
The poor guy has never been so frustrated.
Blake turned out to be just as charming as he had the first time we met. On campus, I quickly learned people were more likely to be polite and gentle when he was lurking behind me. A couple of girls came to me in the cafeteria to ask for a selfie, and Blake nearly glared them into oblivion. They could hardly smile when they were taking the picture.
“You could be nicer,” I told him when the girls had scurried off.
“It’s not my job to be nice.”
“No, it’s your job to protect me,” I say. “But those girls hardly looked like serial killers.”
“Serial killers look like everyone else.”
“Is that a warning? Do you have something you want to tell me, Blake?”
I think he’s starting to get used to my deflections and passive-aggressive cheerfulness. He doesn’t look as sour with me as he had when we’d first met. Just kind of… tired and done. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than tagging along to my lecture on Strasberg’s Method or my vocal classes.
On the morning I have to give my first TV interview, I think I’m going to explode with nerves. Shane has an audition which he tried hard to get out of to be here for me, but in the end, the stars had aligned against us.
“I’ll be thinking of you,” he’d said while he’d given me a hug and kiss that morning. “You’re gonna be great!”
Magnus is there, though. He’s got an encouraging smile on his lips as he leans into the plush chairs in my changing room.
Yeah, I get a changing room.
The makeup lady just left, and I’m left sitting in front of the mirror with a soft pink blush on my cheeks and smoky eyes. My outfit is pretty beauty blogger—a cute white dress with silver bracelets and dark rose pumps. My hair is piled up high on my head, and I feel like if I turn it the wrong way, it might start wobbling like a bobble head. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and all I can think is I don’t look anything like myself.
“Is everything okay?” Magnus asks.
I turn in my chair. Beyond Magnus, leaning against the door, Blake is texting. His eyes are downcast, and his hips are leaning against the solid wood displaying the taut lines of his body in a way that makes me want to walk over and lick him from top to bottom.
But I don’t. Because I have self-control, goddammit.
“I don’t really look like myself,” I say to Magnus, trying to distract myself from my stupid libido. I’ve been in a dry spell—that’s all this is. “I mean, it’s cute and all, but it’s not really me?”
Magnus purses his lips. “Why didn’t you say anything when the makeup woman was here?”
“It’s not… it’s not just the makeup,” I say. “It’s… look, I don’t wear heels. I can’t wear heels. I’m worried I’m going to trip and fall on my ass. And this dress is a bit short for a morning show, isn’t it?”
Not that the viewers of the Today show would probably mind if I flash a bit of leg, but most of the time when I’m on YouTube, I’m wearing a cute top and skirt combo, or maybe a nice dress that goes below my knees. My hair is too fussed with, and I’m worried when I perform at the end of the segment, and I’m resolutely not thinking about how nervous that makes me, it’s going to spill forward over my face, and I won’t be able to see my uke.
“Hmm,” Magnus says, frowning and tapping his chin. “I’m sorry, Natalie. If you’d told me sooner, I might have been able to do something about it.”
“You’re right, it’s my fault,” I say. “Could we… maybe just change the hair? I feel like I’ll be more comfortable if I have it out? Please?”
Magnus nods and pushes himself out of the chair leaving me alone with Blake.
I turn away from him and start fiddling with my uke. It’s got a butterfly decal on it, and I quickly tune the strings even though I’ve done it a million times today. Pretty soon a string will snap, and I’ll have a fucking breakdown, but I need to do something with my hands.
“You’re nervous,” Blake says.
I don’t jump. I flinch. Like a fucking lady.
“What gave it away?” I ask, aiming for casual. “The nervous sweats? The general air of blind terror?”
Blake watches me for a moment, then sticks his hand into his pocket and pulls out a small cube, walking across the room and handing i
t to me. “Play with this before you tear that ukulele in half.”
I stare at the cube, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. It’s one of those distraction cubes that have clickable buttons and fiddly bits. I’ve seen them advertised on Facebook.
“You carry one of these?” I ask, taking it and clicking the buttons. It gives me something to do with my hands, and I instantly feel grateful.
Blake nods. “One of my friends is PDD-NOS.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a form of autism. When he gets overstimulated, this helps. All of us carry one.”
“That’s cool,” I say.
I keep clicking the buttons feeling slightly calmer though in no way more prepared. I wonder if it might be possible for me to take this into the interview with me, but something tells me it’s not appropriate.
Blake leans against the makeup table and watches me play with the cube for a while, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that accentuates his beautiful biceps. I am once again glad I’ve got the cube—it’s something to focus on so I’m not tempted to reach out and run my finger over his arms.
“When you get out there, pretend it’s a really high-budget collaboration with another YouTuber,” Blake says.
“Won’t help,” I tell him, though I’m grateful he’s at least trying to offer something. It’s the first time he’s ever reached out, and if I weren’t so freaked out, I would be able to appreciate it more. “I’d never collab looking like this.”
“Right, it’s not part of your aesthetic.”
“No, it’s because I can’t move,” I tell him. I don’t take my eyes off the cube, but I kick out one of my pumps. “I hate wearing shoes I can’t run in.”
I don’t see his expression, but I hear the disbelief in his voice. “You think you’re going to be running today?”
“I run every day,” I say. “But that’s not… look, it’s a girl thing, okay? I don’t like wearing shoes that keep me from running away.”
It’s a stupid insecurity, but when I’m already feeling super vulnerable, the idea that I’ll be hampered even more makes me queasy. Some women have mastered the art of running in heels—those women are to be feared and respected—but I am not one of them. And right now, with the straps pinching me, my toes squeezed, and my ankle already trembling even though I haven’t even stood up in them, all I can think about is how hard it will be to get onto the set for the interview much less leave the room when I’m done.
