Bottle It Up: (A Between the Pines Novel)

by Lisa Shelby

  Nikki walks arm and arm with me to the back room where the trainer waits for us. “Good God, woman. He’s as sexy as he is serious. Hubba, hubba.”

  “I agree, but he doesn’t have much of a personality.”

  “Don’t take it personally. Those are the rules. He’s just trying to keep it professional. As much time as we spend with our staff, especially our personal protection, we would all be having torrid affairs with them, and the paparazzi would have a field day. He knows what he’s doing. Trust him and follow his lead.”

  “You’re right. I know you are. This is all just a huge adjustment for me. I miss driving myself around, and I hate the opening and closing of the car door. I just don’t know what to do. Let myself out? Wait for him? Ugh, I have no clue what I’m doing.”

  “Ask him later what he prefers when it comes to letting yourself out of the car. Otherwise, try to take your mind off the hot giant in reception and focus on your mind, body, and soul.” She tries to stay serious, but she bursts out laughing within two seconds. “Ha! Who am I kidding? There’s no getting that tall drink of water out of your head.”

  “You’re bad; you know that?”

  “I do, but that’s why we’re friends, right?”

  “Ladies, are we ready?” With her dark curls piled on top of her hair and not one stitch of makeup, our perfect-looking yogi is the picture of Zen when she asks very kindly, telling us to shut our traps and get into position.

  When the class had finished, Hopper was outside waiting for me next to the Audi. Unfortunately, his sunglasses were back on, once again covering his hazel eyes. Now, I’m sitting in the back of the car, and he’s jumping into the driver’s seat.

  He starts down the road, and I pick up my phone to occupy myself during what I am sure is about to be another silent ride when I’m startled by the sound of his voice.

  “Ma’am, we’re going to have to take the long way home.” I look up and find him actually looking back at me in the rearview mirror. If only he didn’t have his shades on. But at least I can confirm there is no accent. It appears English is his native tongue, after all.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, trying to prolong the conversation.

  “Everything is fine, ma’am. Shouldn’t be too long,” he replies but picks up his phone and makes a call.

  From what I can gather from his side of a couple of different phone calls, Smith is in a matching Audi, and he is letting him and another driver know where we are so we can sync up and then separate and confuse someone who may be following us.

  Why do I get the feeling things aren’t really fine?

  “Excuse me, but is everything really okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. There were just some pictures posted online of you and Miss Gwen entering the yoga studio, which means your whereabouts are known. It’s best if we add some confusion to the situation in case someone is following us.”

  “I guess this is what I should expect if I hang out with Nikki. I mean, she is the biggest pop star alive right now.”

  “Ma’am, the headline was about you, not Miss Gwen.”

  “Why in the world would anyone care where I go to work out?”

  “To the world, you are the woman who stole the heart of Josh West. People care.”

  “Well, they need to get a life because that’s just sad.”

  I swear his eyes crinkle behind his glasses from a smile, but I’ll never know for sure.

  We ride along in our usual silence once again, and even though I hear Nikki’s advice in my ears about keeping it professional, I figure it can’t hurt to ask some basic questions. I can keep it professional. Work-related. Besides, he spoke to me while looking at me in the rearview mirror. I would say we’re making progress.

  “So, how long have you been in this line of work?” I ask, feigning confidence.

  “Nine years.” He replies with a clipped tone that says, where is this going?

  “How did you get into the bodyguard business?”

  There is a beat of silence that has me internally pleading with him not to shut me down, and I’m barely able to hold back a squeal when he answers.

  “Made some connections in the military.”

  “Do you like what you do?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The schedule doesn’t get to you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Enough with the ma’ams!

  “Where are you from?”

  “Back East,” he bites.

  His answers are clipped and given through a clenched jaw. It’s clear he isn’t enjoying my rousing round of twenty questions.

  “Would you rather I not ask about your personal life?” I ask, trying to be respectful of his privacy.

  My question is met with silence.

  Oh well, I tried.

  No wonder I feel so alone. I can’t even make friends with the people paid to be around me.

  Sighing loud enough that I’m sure he heard it, I cross my arms and throw an internal tantrum. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me or why I have this need to get to know my protector. I mean, geesh, I was only trying to do what people do. Make simple conversation and get to know the person I spend more time with than I do anyone else.

  Yes, I know he’s trying to keep things professional, blah, blah, blah, but I was just asking him about himself. I didn’t ask him to crawl into the back seat and do me.

  Not that it hasn’t crossed my mind.

  I am human, after all.

  I know it was just one moment, but those few seconds on the sidewalk when his golden eyes held mine are hard to shake. There was no relaxing during class because the cadence of my heart never slowed down, no matter how desperately I tried to find my inner peace.

  His phone rings, thankfully tearing me from my pitiful pouting.

  “Hopper,” he answers sternly.

  Silence.

  “You there already?”

  Silence.

  “Thanks. See you in five.”

  And then more silence.

  Hello...what’s going on? Talk to me!!!!

  “We headed back to the house?” I finally ask, irritated when he continues to leave me in the dark.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Was that so hard?

  “You know you don’t have to call me ma’am. Please feel free to call me Emmett.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.”

  Ugh. He is so annoying.

  Once we reach the house, the car is barely in park when I hop out of the back seat before he can get my door for me. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I can open my own damn door. Thank you very much.

  I march across the driveway as quickly as I can in a pair of flip-flops, but I can feel him right behind me. Of course his long legs catch up to me, and he gets to the front door before I do. He opens the door, and I make sure not to look in his direction. Afraid of what another look into his eyes might do to me.

  Without a word, I march to my room, strip down, and get in the shower before the water has a chance to heat up. Letting the lukewarm water cascade over my face, I try to rationalize my behavior.

  Am I just bored?

  Lonely?

  Horny?

  All of the above?

  Or maybe I’m projecting my emotions onto Hopper when I’m really upset by the fact that I’m starting to regret my arrangement with Josh.

  Thirty minutes later, I’ve washed away my temperamental mood, thrown on an oversized sweater and knee-length yoga pants—my usual work from home attire—and am meandering through the halls of Josh’s beautiful home that has adorned the pages of Architectural Digest. I may have gotten lost in here in the past, but I definitely know my way to the kitchen, where I’m headed, suddenly starving.

  As soon as I see Hopper sitting at his reserved perch at the kitchen island, I regret not blow-drying my hair or putting on mascara. Engrossed, like always, he doesn’t even look up from his computer when I enter the room.

  What is he doing on that computer
anyway? You’d think he was running a Fortune 500 company with all the time he spends with his face aglow by the screen in front of him, rustling through the never-ending files he pulls from his bag. But the part that really gets me is how damn good he looks in those thick black-rimmed glasses he wears when he’s running his secret empire.

  Doing my best to ignore him, I join Greta, Josh’s, well, I’m not really sure what her title is. I think of her as the house manager. Yes, she cooks, but she runs things too. If there is an issue with the landscapers, Greta handles it. If there is a delivery or a meeting to organize, Greta handles it. If something needs to be fixed, Greta handles it. So in my mind, she manages this place, hence house manager. However, house CEO may be a better title. She may be small, five feet one and a hundred and ten pounds if she’s lucky, but she is fierce. She must be in her mid-fifties, but there isn’t a gray hair on her brunette head, and she doesn’t look a day over forty.

  “What can I get you, Miss Ford?”

  “Nothing, Greta. I promise not to get in your way. I’m just gonna make myself lunch.”

  “Well, let me know what you want, and I can get that for you.”

  “I’m sure you can, but I would like to make my own lunch today.”

  The irritation I felt earlier with Hopper that I thought I had quieted starts to twist in my stomach again.

  “Miss Ford, you know it is my job to make you whatever you like and to do your laundry and to make your bed. I’m afraid to imagine what Mr. West would think if he found out you won’t let me do any of this for you.” She’s looking at me with pleading eyes, clearly upset.

  “Greta, Mr. West would be fine to hear that I’m taking care of myself, just as I have always done. I am a thirty-one-year-old woman who would like to make my own lunch. I don’t want anyone else doing my laundry. Why should you have to touch my dirty underwear?”

  “But Miss—” Greta tries to interrupt me, but something about today is eating at me, and I am done with all of the hired help who are here to help me. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’m surprised she isn’t offering to hold my hand while I pee.

  “Greta, I’m sorry that I’m not the fiancée you would have hoped for, but I’m what you’ve got. I like to cook, and I like to do laundry, and I like the ritual of making my own bed in the mornings. It’s nothing personal, and when Josh is home, you can cater to his every whim, but that’s just not me. I really hope you know I’m not trying to upset you. I’m just trying to adjust to this new life of mine the best way I can, and taking care of myself is one of the things that keeps me sane.”

  I can see the compassion in her eyes. She heard me, and she understands. It’s almost like a silent understanding woman to woman.

  “Of course, Miss Ford. But do let me know if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that. So, what can I make the three of us? Anything sound good?” I ask, opening the gray refrigerator doors that match the cupboards and blends into the rest of the black kitchen.

  When I close the fridge door and turn around, Greta is staring at me, not sure what to say, and I do believe I see Hopper trying to smother a grin. When he lifts his eyes from his laptop, I catch his glance. His eyes are dancing with humor, and I know if I were closer, I’d see the golds and greens of his irises sparkling like they were a couple of hours ago on that sidewalk.

  Once again, the moment is short-lived, and with a silent chuckle, his chest lifts in a silent laugh, and his gaze is back on the screen in front of him.

  Chapter 4

  I need to get out of this house and try to squash this horrible case of cabin fever I have. And what better way to do that than to check out a bookstore and maybe even drive myself. I’ve been dying to check out The Last Bookstore since I got to Los Angeles, and today is the day.

  I’m dressed and ready when I realize I have one small problem. I don’t know where Josh keeps his car keys. I know Hopper can take me wherever I want to go, but I miss driving and want to drive myself.

  After searching for a good fifteen minutes for car keys, I give up. Trying to play it cool, I nonchalantly approach Hopper, and say, “I’m gonna go out for a bit, but I can’t find car keys anywhere.”

  “I’ll drive you, ma’am,” he says, removing his glasses as he rises from his stool at the kitchen island.

  “You do know I’ve had my driver’s license for quite some time now?” I retort from the other end of the island. “I was driving a tractor before I was sixteen, so I think I can handle it. And please call me Emmett.”

  He just stares at me. No facial expression. Nothing.

  Could he be any more frustrating?

  “I don’t need you to drive me. I can drive one of Josh’s cars.”

  “Ma...Ms. Ford, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that.”

  “Ms. Ford is my mother. My name is Emmett. Now, what do you mean you can’t let me do that? Do you mean you can’t or you won’t?”

  He takes a couple of steps closer, the eye contact intense.

  He is a very serious man.

  It looks good on him.

  “Miss...it’s not safe,” he shares reluctantly.

  Whoa.

  “Really? It’s that serious?”

  “It is,” he confirms solemnly.

  “Fine. Hope you like bookstores,” I bite out with a hint of venom. Not sure why. It isn’t his fault.

  “Give me five minutes, and I’ll take you wherever you’d like to go.”

  I pick at a bowl of grapes as he closes his laptop and gathers his paperwork, putting it all in a dark brown leather messenger bag. He disappears for a minute or so, and when he returns, he simply motions with his arm in the direction of the front door. Apparently, he’s ready to go. I pop one last grape in my mouth and follow his lead, not minding walking behind him to the car.

  Watching him walk is one of my favorite pastimes. His taut back muscles flexing under his T-shirt while his thighs strain the denim of his jeans to their limits. But his jeans...I don’t even know how you describe such perfection. I grew up in small town America where everyone wore jeans every day, and I’ve still never seen a pair fit quite like Hopper’s.

  The man can fill out a pair of jeans.

  Aside from me telling him where I wanted to go when we first got in the car, the ride is as quiet as always, and I make a note in my phone to put a pair of my earbuds in my purse because the awkwardness from the lack of conversation is suffocating. I’m a people person, and I’m not sure how much more I can take of those around me treating me like their employer instead of a human being. I need to have a little chat with Josh because this isn’t me, and I need him to make his staff feel a bit more at ease around me.

  Finally, The Last Bookstore is in sight, and I’m not sure how it’s possible, but Hopper pulls up to a parking spot practically in front of the store doors. This is downtown LA, and I had read that parking in this area was tough to come by. I guess it’s just another one of the perks that comes along with my new life.

  We both hop out, and I’m glad to see he has to feed the meter like the rest of us common folk. Waiting next to the car, I stare up at the neon sign in the window and admire the building. Our little bookstore isn’t going to be anything like this, but I still can’t wait to check it out and see what ideas I can steal.

  “Ready when you are, Miss Ford.”

  I open my mouth to tell him for the hundredth time that my name is Emmett, but I’m too excited to be out of the house. No need to ruin my mood. So, I ignore him and enter the door he’s opened for me.

  The store is grand, and although it’s full of books, it feels more like a huge art installation rather than a bookstore. I’m used to our trips to Portland and our visits to Powell’s Books, where floor after floor is crammed with books to buy. There are books for sale here, but they are also used as pieces of art.

  With so much to look at, I don’t even shop the first half hour or so. Wandering through the store with Hopper keeping a comfortable distance behind me
, I walk slowly, touching the spines of the classics and cracking open used books that smell and feel different than brand new books. There is something about a book that has been passed through the hands of generations, providing an escape to reader after reader that adds a mystic quality to it that new books can’t capture.

  When I walk under an archway built of books with lights illuminating the stacks of bound words above me, I’m taken in by the quirky beauty of the space while a wave of melancholy washes over me for the briefest of moments. I shake it off and make my way to the romance section, where I find four full shelves of Eve Villanelle books. Wow, I knew Mason was a big-time author, but I’m blown away to see how much space she takes up.

  I stop and take a selfie with all her book babies behind me and post it to social media, tagging her so she knows I’m thinking about her and showing my support. I also text her a pic of me with the last two books in the series with a sad face because my journey with her amazing characters is almost over.

  Once I have Mason’s books in my hands, I go a little crazy, suddenly feeling the need to fill my arms with hours of escape. Brand new best sellers and classics. Some I’ve read, and some I haven’t. Even if I don’t read them all, they can always go on the shelves of the bookstore Mason and I are opening back home after I read them.

  Just One More Chapter will be open in a matter of weeks.

  I’m going to be a business owner. In my hometown. If only I were home to enjoy it to the fullest. Mason and I text, call, and email several times a day, and I’ve been a part of every decision and have done all of the ordering, but it’s not the same as being there to do the work.

  I’m loaded down with literature and am about to drop what’s in my arms when Hopper appears out of nowhere.

  “Here. Give me some of those. You look like you’ve got a little bit more than you can handle.”

  “Yeah, I seem to have gone a little overboard, haven’t I?”

  “Not for me to say, Miss Ford.”

  Professional as always. And what exactly does he mean by that?

  “Well, I know carrying books isn’t exactly in your job description, and I really appreciate your arms.”