Another quick glance at Lyla’s schedule confirmed that she intended to stay at home for the first half of the day tomorrow. Tate would have plenty of time to run out and buy another blazer, and a few more shirts and pants that he could rotate through.
Hell, with the amount of coin Red’s company was throwing at him for this gig, Tate could afford a whole new wardrobe—and maybe he should. After everything his friends had done for him this year, he didn’t want to make them look bad. Red was putting a lot of stock into this new imprint he was starting, and Tate hated the thought of doing anything to jeopardize that.
Even more than that, though, he didn’t want his appearance to reflect badly on Lyla. Based on what he’d seen online and what she had going on for the next few weeks, making a personal connection with her readers was important to the bottom line.
No way was Tate going to be the weakest link in that chain. And, if a certain gorgeous mystery author happened to take a shine to her new bodyguard’s fashion sense, then who was he to complain?
With that in mind, Tate was sorely tempted to shoot for the whole badass g-man aesthetic, complete with dark sunglasses and a tough-looking earpiece. Sadly, that was probably overkill—and he suspected Lyla would only laugh at him, anyway.
Okay, so…he had his marching orders. Now all Tate had to do was find a freaking menswear employee who knew their way around a six-foot-two, 200-hundred-pound killing machine. This was Manhattan, though—if he couldn’t find it here, it didn’t exist, and maybe Red or Luca would know where to start.
Tate grabbed a pen and added shopping to his list for the next day, then relaxed back into his pile of pillows to begin learning everything he could about being a bodyguard, courtesy of the loose-lipped internet.
BY THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Tate had learned a number of things about the woman he was shepherding around town. Acting as Lyla’s bodyguard felt sort of like taking a crash course in getting-to-know-you—so many details about her presented themselves, courtesy of their peculiar arrangement.
Hell, in a matter of hours, Tate had found out more about Lyla’s wants and needs than he’d ever known about any of his ex-girlfriends, even after months of dating them.
For example, where Tate was particular about his coffee, Lyla was fussy about the tea she drank (honey and milk, and hold the lemon or creamer, thank you very much).
She claimed to be allergic to making beds, but was meticulous with her laptop and notebooks, as well as her appearance.
Perhaps the most interesting thing about Lyla, however, was that she was apparently a vegetarian. And not a vegetarian as in, let me tell you all the ways you’re ruining the planet, you savage—but a no-fanfare, quietly never-ate-meat kind of person.
Tate hadn’t realized it at first, because she’d never made a big announcement of the fact like a lot of people would have. As far as he could tell, if there weren’t acceptable things on hand for Lyla to eat, she simply went without.
And normally, that wouldn’t be the least bit interesting, he knew. It was what Lyla did for a living that turned her food choices into something fascinating for him.
That was because, while Tate had never actually read any of her books, he had browsed through several of their descriptions online last night. He’d also read some of her customer reviews, and there was no mistaking that Lyla wrote some really gritty stuff. The disconnect between that kind of imagination and Lyla’s real-life, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly demeanor stuck out to Tate like a sore thumb.
How had it happened? While he trailed around after her, waiting patiently while she went about her business, his brain couldn’t seem to let it go. Here Lyla was, kindhearted and gentle as a lamb. If Tate had met her out of the blue and been told what she did for a living, he probably would’ve bet good money that she wrote something cozy and heartwarming.
Instead, she spent her days penning dark and twisty books that her readers devoured. She was an enigma, and Tate was inconveniently fond of those.
Even if he had no business dwelling on it, the puzzle of Lyla wasn’t dangerous, at least. The riddle of her overwrought “fan” was, however—and fortunately, Tate was on solid ground there. Unlike speculating about his new boss’s considerable assets, trying to figure out the stalker business was a good and helpful use of his time.
Tate would figure it out, too—he felt it in his bones. The more time he spent with Lyla, shadowing her through her daily life and author-y pursuits, the better sense Tate had of how normal civilians were supposed to interact with her.
When or if someone behaved abnormally, Tate was sure he’d be able to spot it. He could report it to the cops, Lyla would be safe, and Tate could go back to his unit with a clear conscience.
He could resume keeping the world safe from asshole insurgents like he’d never missed a step.
Easy as breathing.
LYLA WAS ON the move again a couple of days later, completing chore after chore with the efficiency of a military operation. Tate was impressed, and not a little daunted.
These days, he could barely stay on task with the help of a list—but Lyla knew exactly where she had to be, and when, and she made it all look easy.
On the way to her afternoon appointment at her publisher, Tate had a minute to breathe in the back of their cab. He seized the opportunity to ask Lyla something that had occurred to him around three a.m. that morning.
“So, the other day, when that detective came by,” he began, “He mentioned the other letters you’ve received from that nutcase.”
Lyla dropped her head back on the cracked black pleather of the cab’s seat. “Don’t remind me,” she groaned.
“I was just wondering if you have copies of them, though. I wouldn’t mind taking a look to see if anything jumps out at me.”
“Sorry, but no,” she said. She didn’t sound one bit sorry, and Tate could hardly blame her.
“If you want to look at them,” she went on, “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Detective Scarletti. He’s got everything at the station, as far as I know.”
“Pass. What do you remember off the top of your head?” Tate asked. “Can you give me an idea of what they sounded like? Or if they all said the same thing?”
“You’ve got it wrong,” Lyla sighed.
Tate paused. “How so?”
“No, I mean that’s what they always say. Whoever it is totally has a screw loose. They complain about something I’ve done or said and then tell me I got it wrong. It’s like they’re keeping track of everything I do and measuring it against some rule book only they know about. No matter what, though, I don’t get anything right as far as they’re concerned.”
“That’s weird.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Have the cops looked at other authors? Maybe failed ones who write the same kind of books you do? Or…what about some rabid fan of a different writer—someone who leaves you bad reviews because they think you’re in competition with their hero, or whatever.”
“You’ll have to ask Scarletti that, too. All I know is that he can’t figure out who the person is, and he can’t do much else unless the freak decides to up their game. He’s stuck, I’m stuck, we’re all stuck.”
“Not me,” Tate said, and hoped Lyla would believe it.
LYLA’S CELL BEGAN ringing the minute their cab pulled up outside Trident Publishing, so Tate waved her off to answer it, while he took care of paying the fare.
By the time he’d figured out the whole card-swiping apparatus and reached her side, Lyla was pacing on the sidewalk with a decidedly pained expression on her face.
“Mom? Mom!” she cried. And then, “Oh, hi Dad.”
Tate smiled, enjoying the glimpse of normalcy. Lyla wasn’t nearly as enthralled.
“No, not until next week,” she told her parents. “About three weeks, but…no. Mom, no—I’m not going to Mars. You can call me anytime. If I’m tied up, I’ll just call you back later.”
Tate’s dick twitched a bit at that image—appro
ving immediately of tying Lyla to a bed wearing only her cute secretary glasses. He coughed and sent a stern settle-down to the idiot, then unabashedly eavesdropped some more.
“Guys, it’s not that far,” Lyla groaned. “I think the farthest we’re going is only Cleveland. I will be home before you know it.”
Tate stuck his hands in his pockets and chuckled. Lyla’s parents sounded like nervous nellies—no wonder their daughter had grown up into such an independent woman. She’d probably done it just to spite them.
“Well, yeah. I can try,” she was saying. “I’ll let you know, though.”
Lyla listened for a long moment, and then practically yelled, “No! Do not—Mom, please do not do that!”
Well, that sounded weird. Tate swiveled toward her and caught her eye.
Lyla mouthed, I’m so sorry, then stared up at the little patch of sky, just visible between the tops of the buildings, like she was searching for deliverance.
“Because I don’t want to have dinner with them, that’s why,” she groaned. Lyla shook her head and gave Tate a look that said, loud and clear, What in the actual fuck?
“Because I can’t stand them! Dad…Mom! Guys, will you stop? For crying out loud, we’ve been over this a thousand times.”
Tate had no idea what “this” was, but maybe he could still lend a hand. He walked closer and met Lyla’s beseeching gaze, then murmured, “Everything okay?”
“Oh my God, they’re insane,” she whispered back.
Tate tapped his watch and raised his eyebrows. “Need an out?”
That earned him a grateful squeeze on his bicep, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t preen a little at the way Lyla’s hand lingered there. He might’ve even flexed a tiny bit, but come on—these things happened.
“Listen, I love you two, but I’ve got to hang up now,” Lyla said, taking care of things herself. “I’m going into a building. I’m going to lose you. Okay! I love you, too. Okay, bye!”
She stabbed ferociously at her phone screen, making extra sure she’d hung up, and then moaned loud enough to catch the eyes of a few people walking by them on the sidewalk.
“I am so sorry,” she said again. “My parents are super nice people, but sometimes they just do not get it.”
Tate was dying to know what all the fuss had been about, but it felt weird to come right out and ask. He certainly didn’t have the excuse of being professionally invested in people’s motivations like Lyla did.
So, he only smiled and told her, “That is the way of parents. I’m sure they’re trying their best.”
“Yeah, I know. They just have really bad taste in friends, that’s all. Whenever I visit them, they want me to get together with the neighbors, and I kid you not—those people are the worst.”
That answered Tate’s primary question. “I’m sorry. That sucks,” he commiserated.
As they headed into the Trident lobby, Lyla told him, “I feel so guilty arguing with them like that, though. I haven’t had a lot of time to go visit them much, and I know they mean well.” She blew a piece of hair out of her face. “And they’re getting older, you know? I miss them sometimes.”
“Of course, you do. And they’re probably being overbearing because they miss you, too.”
Lyla sighed and changed the subject. “You’re away from home for way longer stretches than me. What do you miss when you’re gone?”
That wasn’t hard at all. “My parents and my little brother, obviously. Home stuff, like food my mom makes and the way my dad keeps the fireplace going every evening in the winter. I miss having a dog.”
“Do you miss your Army friends now that you’re here?” Lyla prodded curiously.
“Sure.” Though oddly, not as much as he’d expected to. It was like there were two Tates—one for home and one for over there.
Home Tate was perfectly happy to take the field right now, and he suspected the guy wouldn’t want to give it up once the time came for him to fade gracefully back into the woodwork.
Lyla wasn’t quite satisfied with Tate’s answer, however. She had one more bullet in the chamber, and as soon as they were alone in the elevator she let it fly. “You must miss your girlfriend, right?” she asked, then watched Tate’s face to see what he would say.
Well, well, well. What did they have here?
Tate tried very hard not to pump his fist in triumph. Miss Lyla Lawson wanted to know if he was single, and he was happy to oblige.
“As it turns out, I do not have a girlfriend to miss,” he told her.
“How is that possible?”
Another compliment. How sweet.
“I don’t do the long-distance thing,” Tate explained casually. “It just doesn’t seem fair to anyone.”
Lyla’s pretty lips turned down at the corners, and she pivoted on her heel to study the buttons for the floors. “I see.”
The crack she’d made at that coffeeshop the first night—about old ideas not fitting his current life—bounced around in Tate’s brain like a drunk, knocking shit over and generally being disorderly.
Why was that, though? The way Tate did things had always made perfect sense before now—so there was absolutely no reason why he should feel guilty telling Lyla about it. Still, Tate could feel the heat climbing up from his collar and the walls of the elevator closing in.
It must be all her questions that were making him uncomfortable—it had to be. However, Lyla would eventually have to realize that Tate was about as interesting as a box of rocks. Then she’d leave him be.
If only that idea didn’t sound worse.
SIX
AS THEY USUALLY did, Trident’s public relations team had scheduled the first events of Lyla’s book tour there in town, and today’s was at a big chain bookstore in Midtown where she’d made a number of appearances over the last few years.
At first, this event seemed as routine as all the others. Things got started on time, there was a decent crowd gathered, and the mood was good.
With Tate stationed quietly behind her, serious and squared-away in his immaculate jacket and tie, Lyla felt like she could relax and act normal, and not spend the whole time worrying about whether her superfan would show up.
But then, about a quarter of the way into the line of people waiting to have their books signed, a young woman sat down who changed everything.
When she handed over a hardcover of one of Lyla’s backlist titles, Lyla happily told her, “Oh, I’ve always loved this one.”
The woman only smiled vaguely and nodded.
“Who should I make it out to?”
“Um, I’m Kim,” she replied, distracted and fidgety. “And thank you so much.”
“You got it, Kim.”
Kim’s attention was fixed over Lyla’s shoulder, however, and she didn’t respond.
Lyla waited her out with the signed book in her hands, and eventually Kim worked up the nerve to ask, “So, um...Who’s that guy?”
Lyla glanced back, even though she had a pretty good idea who the lady meant—and she had to smirk at what she saw there. Tate was in position, all right, his hands clasped loosely in front of him while he tried to look tough in his jacket and tie.
He wasn’t half bad at it, either.
“Oh, that’s just Captain Monroe,” Lyla chuckled.
Kim’s eyes got round and she stammered, “Who is…what does he…I mean…”
“Tate?” Lyla called over her shoulder, “You wanna tell Miss Kim why you’re here?”
He sprang forward immediately and stuck out his hand, giving Lyla’s fan a firm shake. “Ma’am, I work security for Ms. Lawson. How do you do?”
Kim gaped at him for a long beat. “I do fine,” she breathed. Then she turned back to Lyla and fanned herself dramatically. “Omigod, this is so cool. I’ve never gotten to meet a cover model before. Please tell me he’s in the new series!”
Lyla blinked. “Uh…”
After that, the book signing went completely haywire. Several other women wanted i
ntroductions and handshakes, and eventually, a pair of blogger sisters even scampered around the table to take selfies with Tate for their social media feeds.
Lyla was going to have to get things under control if she ever wanted to be invited back—or to make it out of there, to begin with. She got to her feet and signaled for the people still waiting in line to quiet down so she could make an announcement.
“People, can I have your attention, please? We have a long line today, and not a lot of time left to get your books signed. So, in the interest of keeping things moving, I’d like you all to meet someone.”
She turned and waved Tate forward. “This is Captain Monroe. He really does work security for me and, despite appearances to the contrary, he is not a cover model or the inspiration for a new book.”
“Why not?” called someone in the back.
Lyla grinned at her. “Alright, settle down back there. If we want everyone to get their turn, we need to have some ground rules in place. First, you may look, but not touch.”
“Awwwww,” they complained in unison.
Lyla checked on Tate’s reaction and, of course, he made things worse by winking at her.
“Not helping,” she hissed under her breath, but the collective sigh that wafted out from the crowd was so ridiculous, even she had to laugh.
“As I said,” she continued, “you can admire Captain Monroe from afar, to your heart’s content. He doesn’t appear to mind. But let’s allow him to do his job, okay? No more handshakes or selfies, please.”
They booed her. They actually booed her. Lyla stood there in shock, without a clue as to what she should do next.
But then, the clutch of giggling moms at the front of the line stepped forward with their strollers and books, and the signing finally rolled on with a minimum amount of good-natured whining.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 5
