Page 69 of Forced Proximity

The way he never wants me to worry is annoying. Sweet, yes. But he treats me like a guest, not his bodyguard. I came back to keep him safe, not be his friend. My stomach fills with unease, and I’m in full protective overdrive. Justin may think these guests are his friends, but in threatening situations like this, nine times out of ten, the perpetrator is someone the victim knows.

He lowers his head to meet my gaze and presses his palm into my shoulder. ‘It’s gonna be fine, all right? Today’s an easy day.’

It’s not cool that the heat of his hand on my body leaves an imprint.

‘Care to make a wager on the game?’ A devilish grin slides across his face.

‘Oh, Jesus. I hate football,’ I say, reaching for a sparkling soda. ‘I wouldn’t even know who to cheer for. Who’s playing?’

‘Seahawks versus Bears. My money’s on Seattle.’

Hmmm. A little bet could be interesting. ‘What are the stakes?’

‘There’s a lot of things we could put at stake.’ He winks. A flush rushes through me. From a wink. ‘But how about a movie of your choice.’

‘Deal,’ I say, cracking open the top. ‘I’m gonna win and force you to watch the classic Girls Just Want to Have Fun with Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt before they became famous. I may even make you recreate one of the dances.’

His lips tug into a playful grin. ‘It’s on.’

***

Every guest is a potential suspect, and I survey each one as they enter Justin’s house. Although it’s a little odd to see Justin drink in his house, I’m eternally grateful that he’s drinking lager and opening his own bottles. Not that anyone will roofie him in his own home. Probably.

The gate security sends me a scan of each guest’s driver’s license. I feed those back to the agency and confirm no red flags have popped up in the last five hours. I laser focus on each face, looking for any peculiar micro-actions. The vast majority of the guests are former football players, their girlfriends and a few ex-costars. So far, nothing concerning.

‘Neanderthals.’ Zane slumps next to me at the kitchen island and plops a plate of food between us. ‘Ever since I can remember, I’ve always hated football. They’re all so loud. I can’t hear anything.’

I bite into the best bruschetta of my life. Zane’s not wrong. My ears will verge on splitting if the team makes one more interception.

‘I’m glad you’re back, Doc.’ Zane dunks a chicken wing into sweet buffalo sauce. ‘Justin was a total fuckdick while you were gone.’

‘A fuckdick?’ I chuckle and spread brie on a cracker. ‘Is that an official term?’

Zane opens their mouth but is interrupted with deafening cheers. ‘He was stomping around, being all mopey and whiny. But I think the package kicked him in the ass.’

I can’t believe that his team refused to call the police. Any more of those and I’m telling Marcus we’re overruling their wishes.

‘Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something,’ I say, reaching for a napkin. ‘You know Justin’s crew more than anyone. We have to look at the possibility that the stalker is internal. One of his friends or partners.’

Zane taps their fingers around their plate before settling on a chocolate-covered mango. ‘I thought that, too. But honestly, I don’t know. There’ve been only a few packages, and the rest are videos. That could be anyone in the world. And—’

‘WHOO! Seahawks scored, baby!’ The shouting drowns out Zane’s words.

‘Christ already,’ Zane groans. ‘I was going to say that even though I want to say it could be Conner, ’cause I seriously hate that guy, I don’t think he’s smart enough to pull it off. Should we—’

‘What are you two talking about? I can hardly hear the game over your boring conversation,’ Justin says as he pops into the room carrying a plate piled sky-high with food. ‘Doc, you eating something? Tell me you saw the baked brie with pistachio and oranges. That shit’s so good.’

I smile and accept that from now until our professional relationship ends, he’ll ask me about food every hour on the hour. ‘Sure did. Delicious.’

Justin points at the oysters on his plate. ‘Want to try?’

Gross. ‘No chance I’m shooting oysters.’ I dip a mini-gourmet grilled cheese sandwich in spicy ketchup. ‘You don’t actually like those things, right?’

Zane tilts their head toward me. ‘Do you know they’re supposed to be a natural aphrodisiac?’

‘Too bad it smells like a combination of a gym locker and over-cologned bodies,’ I say with a grin.

Justin chuckles, swings to grab another beer and hip shimmies out of the room.