HER ITALIAN BODYGUARD

16. TOO VANILLA

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TOO VANILLA

I’m thousands of feet above ground, cradling a glass of Dom Pérignon in one hand, the city lights far below like scattered jewels. Opposite me, Eric lounges comfortably, legs crossed, his blue eyes studying me with quiet patience. Every now and then, he flicks a strand of his newly dyed pink hair out of his face. Classic Eric, ever the pop of color in an otherwise gray world. It’s oddly comforting. He hasn’t changed. Not in the ways that matter.

“I like the color,” I nod toward his hair, trying to ease the tension that’s settled between us like fog.

He quirks an eyebrow. “Well, you know me. I’m always on brand.”

Then he exhales, the lightness fading from his tone. “So… trouble in paradise? Or is this about that little attempted murder situation that’s been plastered all over every news outlet in the country?”

He’s blunt, as always.

“I know we haven’t been as close since med school,” he continues, softer now, “but you could’ve at least replied to my message. I was worried, Gina.”

His disappointment stings a little more than I expect it to. But he’s right. A lot of people messaged me; people I hadn’t spoken to in years. Professors. Acquaintances. Even that annoying girl who used to eat tuna in the library. But I was too overwhelmed to deal with anyone. It wasn’t personal. It was survival.

“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “There were just… too many texts. I couldn’t keep up.”

I flash the Amex like a white flag. “How about I make it up to you in Vegas?”

He grins instantly, glancing at his watch. “We should be landing around one a.m. So… hell yes.”

I finally relax a little. The steady hum of the jet, the fizz of the champagne, Eric’s presence. It’s the first time in weeks that I don’t feel like my lungs are being crushed.

“So,” I ask, leaning back. “How’s life been?”

He gives a dry chuckle. “Well, after med school, my parents nearly disowned me for not wanting to practice. They were convinced I’d ‘wasted’ my degree. Eventually, they got over it. Mostly because I started dating a guy whose dad was aiming for a Senate seat.”

He pauses, swirling his champagne. “That didn’t last. Shocking, I know. Now I’m floating, figuring out if taking over the family’s private jet company is my thing or just another placeholder.”

He shrugs, but there’s something warmer in his smile now. “Anyway, I’m glad you called.”

“Me too,” I breathe, looking out the window at the stars.

There’s a lull before he speaks again, more cautious this time.

“So… how about you? Apart from the psycho publicist, is everything really great with Mr. Perfect?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Everything’s great.”

I pause. Shrug. “The whole attempted murder thing has just been… a lot. I needed a breath of fresh air.”

Eric doesn’t push. He just watches me for a beat, then smiles. It’s soft, understanding. It’s the kind of smile that says I see you, even if you’re trying to hide. The kind that makes you feel both exposed and safe all at once.

“Alright,” he says simply.

Then, as if flipping a switch, he turns on the charm. His fun side takes over. Over the next four and a half hours, he somehow manages to distract me from the chaos still gnawing at the edges of my mind. We laugh. We gossip. We share ridiculous med school memories. And for the first time in a long while, I let myself loosen up. Just a little.

By the time we arrive at the high-end luxury hotel, I’m slightly buzzed and genuinely smiling. I’d booked a single suite for Eric, he didn’t need much space (His words, not mine) and a double suite for Diane and me. Diane had flown in ahead of us, arriving nearly two hours earlier. She’s freshly showered, her hair wrapped in a towel, and judging by the way she blinks as we walk in, she’d just been drifting off again when we barged in, trying, and failing miserably, to be quiet.

She yawns. “You guys sound like a musical. A drunk, sparkly musical.”

Eric grins. “That’s because we are. Welcome to Vegas, darling.”

Diane sits up straighter, eyeing him with a grin of her own. “I always knew you were fun, Eric.”

“Sweetheart, I define fun. Comes with the brand,” he says dramatically, tossing his jacket onto the nearest chair. Then he lowers his voice and leans in conspiratorially, “Alright. Twenty minutes. We regroup downstairs. I may or may not have a connection at this very exclusive, very lavish club.”

Diane raises an eyebrow.

He winks. “I may or may not have given the owner a blowjob once.”

“Eric!” I choke, my face going crimson.

The two of them look at me like I’ve just sprouted a halo.

Eric clutches his imaginary pearls. “Wait… are you blushing? Hun, you’re married. Don’t tell me you’ve never-”

“Oh my God, Eric, my s*x life with my husband is none of your business,” I say, flustered.

Diane snorts, clearly enjoying every second of this. Has my s*x life with my husband been that vanilla? To be fair one time I tried to go down on him and he instead effortlessly lifted me over his shoulders, put me to bed and f****d me, missionary style.

Eric, however, is undeterred. “Oh, it is absolutely my business now. Has he at least gone down on you? Like, ever?”

I hesitate. Just for a second. But that’s all the confirmation he needs.

Eric gasps like I just told him I’ve never seen sunlight. “No. Noooo. Sweet baby Jesus.”

Diane raises an eyebrow. “Wait. Never?”

“Okay,” I interrupt, holding up my hands. “We are not doing this. I need eyeliner and tequila, in that order.”

Eric whistles, strolling toward his suite. “I’ll see you gorgeous sinners in twenty. And don’t skimp on the cleavage, tonight, we dance like we own the damn city.”

The door shuts behind him with a theatrical flair, and I collapse onto the nearest bed, groaning into a pillow.

Diane chuckles beside me, her towel now hanging loosely around her shoulders. “I’ve missed him. He’s still as dramatic as ever.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, a small smile tugging at my lips. “So have I.”

She shifts on the bed to face me. “You want to talk about it?”

I exhale, long and slow. The weight of the question settles on my chest like a lead blanket. “Not tonight,” I say finally. “Let me just get f*****g wasted, alright? And please, please tell me you brought one of your infamous wigs and those oversized sunglasses that could fool facial recognition software.”

A grin blooms across her face, playful and mischievous. “Honey, I came prepared. I’ve got a caramel-blonde bob with your name on it and vintage Chanel shades that scream, ‘I’m too famous to be spoken to.’ And we are ditching those sad dinner gowns. Tonight, it’s heels, glitter, and slinky dresses so short you’ll forget what modesty means.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” I say, grinning despite myself. Then I bite my bottom lip, hesitating. “It’s just… I haven’t been to a club since college. And even then, it was always with Mark. He never liked me drinking too much or dancing too wild. I guess I got used to shrinking myself.”

Diane’s expression softens. “Wait, really?”

I nod, suddenly feeling small. “I don’t even know if I remember how to just... let go.”

She slides her hand into mine. “That’s okay. That’s what I’m here for. You don’t have to remember. You just have to show up. Tonight, we’re going to dance until our legs give out, drink until the world goes quiet, and laugh like none of it ever happened. You deserve that, babe.”

I look at her, genuinely grateful. “You’re the best.”

“Damn right I am.” She gets up, heading for the closet like she’s on a mission. “Now get your ass up. We’ve got ten minutes to become the hottest versions of ourselves.”

“And maybe by three in the morning, I’ll finally stop feeling like a woman who almost let a monster convince her she was crazy,” I murmur under my breath.

Diane hears it anyway. She pauses, turns, and says with quiet fire, “You’re not crazy. You just loved the wrong man for too long. But that ends tonight.”

And somehow, those words are exactly what I needed to hear.