Take Hold of Me

by Arell Rivers

  My professional smile takes center stage. I glance to my lunch date and reply, “I am looking forward to it.”

  After Wills speaks with the hostess, we are seated in a corner booth, away from the large windows in the front. He slides into his seat across from me so that he is facing the interior of the restaurant, his gaze scanning the other diners. He always is looking out for me, even if he does not recognize it. I am going to make him recognize it.

  A server comes and takes our orders. As soon as we are alone, Wills leans forward. “So, tell me why the Agency thinks you need a bodyguard to get you more attention. You saw the valet back there. You seem to be doing that just fine on your own.”

  A nervous laugh escapes my lips. I do not want to admit my recent losses to Geonna, but he has always been such a good listener. That was the first quality that drew me to him. I fiddle with my napkin, finally placing it on my lap. “I lost out on a few contracts this month, so the Agency wants to boost my public profile.”

  Both of his eyebrows raise. “That’s hard to believe.”

  His confidence in me gives me hope. “Which part?”

  “Both, really. You’re a household name.”

  The server brings our drinks. I submerge the straw into my water. “A young Croatian model won a reality TV contest, and all the companies want to sign her.” I take a sip. “So, you see the need to up my status within the industry. My Agency knows how to take care of me.” My voice trails off. “They always have.” I just wish they would listen to my requests once in a while. Like calling Wills first for this job.

  His eyes bore into mine before dropping to his glass. I track his capable hands picking it up and bringing it to his lips. “I see. So, since it’s not me, who did your Agency hire for this esteemed position?”

  “Monsieur Price texted me as we were driving here.” I locate my cell in the bottom of my bag and read off the name, dropping the phone on the seat next to me.

  He shifts in his seat. “I think I’ve heard of him. How about this? I’ll check him out for you.”

  My arms hug my body. He cares about me, otherwise, he would not make such an offer. “Merci. If you are not my bodyguard, it makes me feel safe to know you are looking out for me. Although,” I lean forward and the English words tumble out, “my request still stands. I can tell the Agency that we were talking, and you agreed. And since I already feel comfortable with you…”

  Wills blanches, shaking his head in the negative. His cheeks hollow and his eyes dart around the room. “Emilie, I left the industry after … everything that happened.”

  I inhale deeply. “I know that’s what you said before. But we have not had a chance to really conversate, uhm, have a conversation since the funerals.” I reach over to his hand, but he puts it on his lap. Undeterred, I search his gaze and continue, “You are a great bodyguard. You saved—”

  “Don’t.” His jaw clenches. “I’m no one’s hero.”

  He is wrong. So wrong. Rose and Cole would not be alive but for him. Roberto and Jared gave their lives for the same cause and would not want Wills to stop living because of what happened. “Wills.” Slightly unfocussed eyes meet mine, giving me a glimpse into the pain he still is in nearly three months after the attack. I better not push him now. “If you are not guarding, what will be your work?”

  “I’m opening up a gym.”

  I catch my lower lip with my teeth. “Oh. So much has happened since I last saw you at Roberto’s …” I grab for my water, knowing this is a very touchy subject. Redirecting my thoughts from the heart-wrenching funerals of his colleagues, I ask, “Where is your gym? I need to keep up my workouts.”

  He downs the rest of his soda, the ice clinking in the now-empty glass. “It’s not far from your house, actually. I could set you up with a personal trainer.” He pauses. “We have some really good female trainers on staff.” A ghost of a smile plays on his lips.

  I cross my arms across my chest. “I would love that.” And the need to check out the women working for him rears its green-eyes.

  A different server comes to our table and refills both of our glasses. I raise mine to my lunch companion. “To new beginnings.”

  He adds, “And leaving the past where it belongs.”

  He touches my glass with his. I bring my glass to my lips but refuse to drink, placing it down on the table instead. Head bowed, I correct him. “Not everything in the past was bad.” Images of him and me sitting side-by-side talking through the night replay in my mind, subsumed by thoughts of his toe-curling kisses. His strong arms around me.

  My eyes land on his lips when he wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I need a fresh start.”

  Before I can reply, two more servers appear at our table, each carrying one of our lunches. Picking up my fork, I dip the tines into the vinaigrette and spear some lettuce. How can I reach him? “I am also starting fresh. Here in LA. For example, I am learning how to drive, and I have a great teacher.” I point my fork at him before putting the bite into my mouth.

  “How is it that you’ve never learned how to drive?” His eyes crinkle as his lips move upward before closing around his sandwich.

  Happy for a safe topic, I cut a piece of chicken while replying, “I left Paris when I was fifteen and have been modeling ever since. I never was in one place for too long and there always were drivers available. When I was in Paris for a break with my family, either they would drive me around, or I would hire a car or even take the Metro. So, here I am, twenty-five and hanging with all the California teenagers to earn my driving license.”

  I giggle, and his reciprocating chuckle warms my heart. My cell phone rings, breaking our happy moment. Looking down, McKenna’s name and face light up my screen, which I hold up so Wills can see. When he was guarding Cole, he got to know Rose’s best friend like I did. Even though she is Rose’s only attendant for her wedding, McKenna has asked me for help in planning the bridal shower. Wills nods once, and I pick up.

  “Emilie, I’m so happy I caught you! I’m in a bind and need your help.”

  Smiling, I puff up. I am making some real friends in America. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just have to have Pacific Ocean beach sand for the bridal scavenger hunt and I obviously can’t get my hands on that out here in Vegas.”

  The beach is a twenty-minute drive from my house. My eyes travel to my driving instructor, who is finishing up his lunch. “I think I can handle that. How much do you need?”

  “Oh, not that much. Five milk containers should be enough.”

  “Five gallons of sand? What on earth are you planning?” Wills tilts his head and I shrug.

  McKenna giggles. “It’s something I’ve been working on. A surprise.”

  “But the surprise is for Rose. You can tell me.”

  “Oh, no. It’s a surprise for everyone. Maid of honor privileges.”

  Laughing with her, I reply, “Okay, fine. I will overnight the sand to you before I fly out next Saturday.”

  “Whew. I knew I could count on you. Well, I would love to chat, but I have so much going on for Rose’s shower. Thanks for being a lifesaver with the sand. Gotta run! See you next week.”

  Grinning, I put my phone down and say, “Looks like I will have to drive to the ocean to pick up some beach sand by next week. Would you be able to take any more time away from working at your gym to help me drive there?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs, sending shivers of longing down my spine. He looks down and responds, “I’ll check my schedule.”

  Not a no! I count this as progress.

  After at least four more servers cleared our plates, refreshed our drinks—again—offered coffee, tea and dessert and took payment, we are finally ready to leave. Wills refused to let me pay for our lunch, even though I wanted to as a thank you for my driving class. Anyway, I am sure the rest of the diners will appreciate having their servers back, as all the wait staff stopped by our table at least once during our meal.

  While we walk through t
he restaurant, heads turn. I don my modeling mask and try to ignore the hairs on the back of my neck prickling with each step. Per my therapist’s strategy, I picture myself at a café in Paris in May.

  Like a mind-reader, Wills grabs my hand, halting me mid-stride, and whispers in my ear, “Brace yourself. I think our parade of servers tipped off the media that you’re here.”

  I nod and tighten my grip in his large, protective hand. We resume our measured walk to the front of the restaurant where a bunch of people stand, both inside and outside the entrance.

  When we approach the hostess stand, Wills steers me into the coat closet which, given the warm August weather, is empty. He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “I don’t want to leave you alone in here, but I also don’t want you standing outside where there are too many people and probably paparazzi. I’m going to have the hostess prevent others from bothering you while I give my ticket to the valet. I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

  Heart thudding, I nod and peek through the Dutch doorway to watch as he makes his way to the hostess stand, his eyes returning to check on me every few seconds. Reaching into his wallet and handing the hostess a bill, he pins me in place with a hard stare. One that I witnessed many times when he was guarding Cole and me during our publicity dates. Despite my fears, an errant giggle tries to surface, but I push it down. He may think he left his bodyguarding days behind, but I know better.

  He disappears out the front door and I burrow back into the corner, keeping my professional smile in place. It is a good thing the door hides my lower half. No one can see how tense the rest of my body has become. I concentrate on taking even breaths. Try to smell fresh croissants.

  Wills returns to my side after what feels like thirty minutes, yet the large clock by the hostess stand shows only two have actually elapsed. “Everything okay?”

  “Oui.” I exhale all of the air from my lungs.

  He scans me from head to toe. “I’m going to block you from the onlookers.” With that, he steps closer to me and turns so that my view is of his back.

  My heart rate slows from being in his protection, then speeds up again as I inhale the fresh-clean scent of Wills. From my new vantage point, I take in his blond hair and notice a silver chain around his neck. My arms itch to wrap around his slim hips and pull him back to my front but I ball my hands into fists instead.

  “You know,” I whisper. “It took me a long time to be able to handle unexpected intrusions of the paparazzi.”

  “You handled this like a champ.”

  “Merci.” I need to explain. He needs to understand just how important he is to me. “Having to walk past all the cameras at the hospital after you were shot in front of me that day was awful. You saw the photos in the tabloids.” Ones that played up my publicity relationship with Cole, but really captured my feelings about Wills.

  His breathing hitches. He nods but remains silent.

  “My terror in those photos was real. I was so scared for you—” My voice breaks.

  “Hush,” he murmurs. “I’m fine.” He pats his shoulder where Starr’s bullet entered his body.

  “Oui.” I reach up and rub the back of his shoulder, where the bullet exited. Beneath my fingertips, his body is as tense as if he is sculpted from marble. I drop my hand. “Anyway, thanks to my therapist, I learned to hide behind my modeling smile and think of Paris. I still get the jitters, though, when the paparazzi show up unexpectedly.”

  Not moving from his guard position, he says, his voice strained, “God, Ems. I’m so sorry. Everything I touch goes bad.”

  “No, no. I am good.”

  I cannot stop my arms from winding around his waist, and I rest my head on his back. His right hand lands on top of mine for a moment. Turning his head, he steps forward, breaking my embrace. His voice is all-work again. “Okay, the car’s out the side exit. Stick with me and I’ll get you in the Jeep before the paparazzi even know you’ve left the building.”

  Without another word, he turns and wraps his arm around my shoulders. This is not a tender hold, rather a professional one. We walk triple-time down a hallway and out a side door where the valet has the passenger door open. I have a split-second to register that the top has been put back on before Wills lifts me into the Jeep as if I weigh nothing. When my legs are safely inside, he closes my door and runs around to the driver’s side. Within moments, he jumps in and we pull away smoothly. No photographers in sight.

  “Wills.” I cross my arms in front of my chest and then uncross them. When he does not respond, I try again. “Wills. Thank you for getting me out of the restaurant without causing a scene.”

  He glances at me from behind the steering wheel, then his eyes return to the road. “I’m sorry I didn’t think ahead. I should have been able to avoid the paparazzi altogether.”

  “I really appreciate what you did.”

  His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, then he turns the blinker on and enters the freeway. Warmth infuses my body with how he protected me just now, without being required to do so. He always looks out for me. He cares.

  “Wills?”

  The only indication that he heard me is the hollowing of the inside of his cheek.

  I lick my lips and try again. “I am scheduled to attend a club opening tomorrow night. My new bodyguard will be there, but I do not have a date. I would love it if you could join me.”

  5

  Emilie

  “Merci.” I exit the car service carrying some shopping bags, the bright blue sky overhead reminding me of a certain former bodyguard’s eyes. If only Wills had agreed to take me for another driving lesson today. When he dropped me off yesterday after lunch, he could not get away from me quick enough.

  Sighing, I follow the flower-lined bluestone pathway to the front door of my Spanish-style bungalow, formerly owned by an actress from the Golden Age of Hollywood. When my accountant insisted I purchase a house, any house, I considered buying a flat in Paris but decided on LA instead. While Paris will always be my home, this is where I need to be based now. Hollywood studios, magazine headquarters, fashion houses. Wills. They all are nearby.

  Fumbling through my tote, I locate my house keys and open the hand-carved mahogany door. Before I cross the threshold, my cell blares La Marseillaise, the French national anthem. I pick up the FaceTime call. “Bonjour, Maman.”

  Her smiling face appears on my screen. “Allô, Emsy. How are things in Los Angeles? That is where you are, right?”

  I smile. My mother always has difficulty keeping track of my schedule. “Oui, I am in my new house. The renovations are all done.” I close the door behind me and place my tote and shopping bags on the coffee table. “Of course, it is not Paris, but it is still nice.”

  “Have you hung up the artwork I sent you yet?”

  I pan the camera on my phone to the gorgeous hand drawing of the shops on the Avenue des Champs Elysées. “Oui. It graces the salon, and I see it every day.” I love how the colors in the drawing compliment my cream-colored walls. And I can almost smell the freshly-made croissants.

  “Perfect. Now tell me what is on your mind. We may be separated by many kilometers, but I can still see you thinking.”

  She knows me so well. I need a coffee. “You are right, Maman.” Passing through an archway to the kitchen, I fill her in on my meeting with Monsieur Price a couple of days ago.

  “You have nothing to worry about. You now have the top executive directing your career. He is a true expert—he won’t steer you wrong. Just do as Monsieur Price says.”

  I nod into the screen and begin to set up the coffeemaker. “You are right, as usual. I will do my best. I have been rehearsing my lines for the commercial and making notes about suggestions that I hope to bring up to the team.”

  “You always are on top of things. I’m sure they will appreciate your input, but don’t be too pushy about it. After all, they paid a professional to write the lines.” She pauses. “My bébé is traveling the world and will be on both the
small and large screens. Papa and I are so proud of you.” She blows me a kiss through the phone.

  While the machine works, our conversation detours to catching up on the gossip around Paris, including the band my little brother is fronting. Gerard’s group caught the ear of a record producer, but he did not like the deal and turned the offer down. He believes something better will come and is holding out. For his part, Papa is doing well at work and Maman keeps very busy with her office and running the house. Even after thirty years of marriage, the love between the two of them shines.

  I want that.

  I am brought out of a daydream involving Wills when she says, “Rinaldo’s team is playing very well.” Her choice of topic should not surprise me. Maman loves football, what Americans call “soccer.” When I got together with Rinaldo years ago, she was ecstatic—the free game tickets he gave her did not hurt, either.

  “I am happy for him.” I reach into the cabinet and select the mug my friend, sometime roommate and fellow model Val gave me. It says I woke up like this. I smile remembering when she gave it to me—both of us had our hair in ponytails, wore no makeup and were hungover.

  “Have you seen Rinaldo lately?” Her eyes take on a familiar glint when talking about my ex-boyfriend.

  I pour the hot café into my mug and let it cool down. “Not since I did that photoshoot in Barcelona a few months ago.”

  “Oh, too bad. You two made such a lovely couple.” She looks down and then back into the camera. “Well, maybe you’ll see him when you’re in Spain again.”

  Rinaldo is what the Americans call a loose end. Tall, dark and very handsome—and the youngest captain elected to represent his football team—he is the epitome of a perfect man. Yet, my heart does not urge me to reconnect with him like it is pushing me toward Wills. “Maman, Rinaldo and I broke up a long time ago because our schedules were out of synch. And nothing has changed. If anything, I am even more on the go now, assuming my bookings pick back up.”