this moment—that’s if he’d even want me.
I need to play off what just happened. So I say, “What is that you told me? I don’t need an emotional baby blanket. Same goes for me, Oscar. Treat me how you’d treat any of your other co-worker non-friends.”
He nods slowly. “Nice woodie,” he says casually.
“It’s even bigger without the pants,” I say, just as casually, and then I turn around, hoping he’s burning up just as much as I am. Every step to the bathroom feels like crossing molten lava. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m still mortified or if it’s just jacked-up levels of attraction. Probably both.
Definitely both.
10
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
No earpiece. No radio. I don’t need them. I’m in Paris without anyone from SFO. Officially on my own, and it’s just another day at work.
My current office is The Louvre. I’ve lost count the number of times I’ve been here, but I try my best not to take these things for granted.
No matter how many times Charlie comes back to see the Winged Victory of Samothrace, a gorgeous eight-foot marble sculpture of a winged goddess, he still has that same awed reverence in his eyes as the first time I saw him here. It’s a gift not to become jaded by beauty.
My gaze drifts to Jack.
With a Canon in hand, he’s busy talking to Charlie, and I hang back out of earshot, only because it’s a busy day at the museum. I had hoped we’d be going to the Musée d'Orsay. It’s less crowded. Smaller. Easier to coordinate with the museum’s security, and one of Charlie’s favorite places in the city.
Landing here, and being on the same floor as the Mona Lisa, isn’t ideal.
But ideal went out the window the moment I became Charlie’s bodyguard. So here I am, quietly telling a girl in French that she can’t get an autograph from him.
She already has a marker in hand, one she dug from her purse. Her crestfallen expression is one I’ve seen a thousand times. “Cela ne prendra qu'une minute. S'il vous plaît.” It will only be a minute. Please.
I reply in fluent French, “Pas aujourd'hui.” Not today.
She can’t be older than twenty. Sighing heavily, she stuffs the marker in her purse. I watch as she uses her phone to snap photos of the back of Charlie’s head, then shuffles away. Rinse and repeat thirty more times. The only upside I have is that Charlie’s less recognized overseas. If this were Philly, he’d have a swarm of crowds already.
It makes it easier to politely bar access to him.
Truth be told, every day is different with my client. Sometimes he won’t care if they want autographs. Other times, like today, he asks me to keep everyone away from him. As if he, himself, is radioactive.
Jack leaves Charlie’s side, and I watch him disappear down a different hall. It takes all my effort to keep my feet planted and not follow him. He’s not your client, Oliveira.
He’s also not famous. Doesn’t need a bodyguard. Straight.
Doesn’t need me.
Look at me, with this sound logic. I should just duct-tape that mantra to my brain. Then maybe my dumbass can stop thinking he’s more mesmerizing than the breathtaking art in this building.
“Hi umm…” Someone taps my shoulder. I rotate to see a twenty-something woman. Hair the color of burnt leaves, American accent, a fashion fanny pack on her hourglass waist—total Instagram Influencer Realness.
She’s hot.
Am I interested…? My eyes almost dart to where Jack left.
“Aren’t you Oscar Oliveira?” She bites her bottom lip.
On one side of all this SFO fame, I don’t need to bat a single eyelash to pick up women or men.
The public knows I’m bi after catching me lip-locked with a man. I was outside a gay bar on my night off, and security isn’t supposed to give interviews to press—but the thought of the media theorizing my sexuality didn’t sit right with me. So I told the paparazzi, “I’m bisexual” and went home with my arm around a hot one-night lay.
Not that picking up people was hard pre-fame. But the new distraction on-duty just makes a complicated job more complicated. And I’m the only one from Kitsuwon Securities in Paris right now. No extra set of eyes when mine wander.
Plus, there’s a restriction about fucking the fans of SFO, written clearly in Kitsuwon’s 400-page rulebook.
The rule: do not.
I think my brother is the only one who consciously breaks it all the time. I prefer not to fuck fans. It ruins some of the