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“Until she releases me from this job, I’m here to provide for your security.”
“Great,” she said. “I have to navigate through the entire Shoshone Nation camped out on the set, not to mention tripping over a glorified babysitter.” She grimaced. “Lucky me.”
As she approached her trailer, she smiled. “Just to be clear, my trailer is off-limits.”
He nodded. “Understood. However, I need to check it before you enter.”
“Check it?”
He nodded. “Someone might pick the lock and lie in wait for you to go inside.”
Londyn stopped in mid-stride. “Seriously? It’s not like I’m a bigshot movie star or anything.”
“No, but you’ve been the target of several attempts on your life.”
“I wouldn’t call them attempts on my life,” she hedged.
“Then what would you call cut brakes and ladder rungs?” he asked.
“Warnings?” She shook her head. “Whatever.” Londyn waved toward the trailer. “Go ahead. Check it. But make it quick. I’m due back on set in an hour and need to get a shower, eat my first meal of the day and be ready for makeup.”
Nash pulled what looked like a thick metal pen out of the pocket of his leather jacket and stretched it from six inches to thirty-six in a telescoping move. From his other pocket, he retrieved a mirror and affixed it to the long metal stick.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“To check the undercarriage of your trailer,” he said.
“For what?”
“For anything that shouldn’t be there,” he said. “Now, please stay back.”
“Staying,” she muttered. “Go. Do your thing. But fair warning... I will have that talk with my mother. Don’t get comfortable. This might be the shortest job you ever have as a bodyguard.”
“We’ll see.” Nash moved forward with his mirror on a stick.
Londyn stood back, checked her watch and tapped her booted toe impatiently. Thankfully, the crowd of protestors had moved on to surround the director and the camera crew, leaving Londyn relatively free of their noise and animosity.
She studied the man walking slowly around her trailer. Despite her determination to be rid of the guy as soon as possible, his scar intrigued her. “So, what’s your story? Have you always been a bodyguard?”
“No,” he responded and disappeared around the back of her trailer.
“What were you before you became a glorified babysitter?” she called out.
“Military,” he said from somewhere behind the trailer.
That could explain the scar. He could have gotten it in combat.
He rounded the right side of the trailer and came back into view, his gaze on the mirror.
“What branch?” she asked. “Navy?”
He paused, his brow forming a V over his nose.
“No?” She crossed her arms over her chest. Did he have something against the Navy? “Air Force?”
“Fuck.” Suddenly, he dropped the mirror on a stick and raced toward her, shouting, “Get down!”
Stunned by his sudden change of direction, Londyn froze.
