Falling For My Grumpy Bodyguard

Chapter 2

Arielle

When the car screeched to a stop in front of St. Mercy’s, I flung the door open, grabbed a fistful of twenties from my clutch, and tossed them onto the passenger seat like I was some mob boss paying for a hit job.

“There. That’s your pay for the drive.”

I knew it was rude, okay? But my father was inside this building hooked up to God knows what machines, and the last thing I had time for was exchanging pleasantries with my Uber driver. I didn't even wait for his reaction before stepping out of the car. My heels clicked against the tiles as I stormed through the automatic doors, perfume still clinging to my dress from earlier, even though my hair was wild like I had just survived a wind tunnel.

I didn't like the smell of hospitals. There was always that mix of antiseptic, old coffee, and vomit that just never left your nose. I swear, if anxiety had a scent, it would smell exactly like this place.

I marched up to the front desk where a nurse with a stiff wig and tired eyes was typing aggressively on her computer.

“Vincent Beaumont,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “I’m his daughter. They called me.”

She looked up, unimpressed. “ID?”

Seriously? My father was somewhere between life and death, and she wanted to card me like I was sneaking into a club. Who in this city didn’t recognize Arielle Beaumont? Whatever. I’d deal with her later. Daddy comes first.

I yanked out my license, slapped it down, and signed whatever stack of papers she slid toward me. I scribbled my signature anyway, muttered something about being next of kin, and asked where the hell my father was.

“Have a seat, Miss Beaumont. The doctor will come for you when he’s ready.”

Have a seat?

My father was somewhere inside this building possibly dying, and this woman was telling me to sit like I came for a spa appointment? She gave me that polite but fake smile nurses were trained to master while pointing toward an empty chair.

So I waited.

Correction: I suffered.

The waiting room was hell in a white dress. On one side, an old man was coughing like he had tuberculosis from the 1800s. On the other, a bunch of kids were using the chairs as their personal jungle gym while their mother pretended earphones made her invisible. A nurse kept calling names into the crowd like we were at a fast-food joint. Somewhere in the back, a baby started wailing so loudly my temples throbbed.

I crossed my legs, pulled out lip gloss, and reapplied like I wasn’t dying inside. If anybody was going to spot me here, I at least had to look like I belonged on the cover of a magazine, not like some tragic girl waiting for bad news. Still, inside, I was crawling out of my skin.

At some point, an elderly woman next to me tapped my arm. “Are you waiting for someone too?”

‘No, I just love the aesthetic,’ I wanted to snap, but instead I gave her a polite smile and nodded. She kept talking anyway, something about her grandson and his appendix. I tuned her out of my hearing. I thought about Dad hooked up to machines and about how unfair it was. He was supposed to be the strongest man in every room, not lying in some gown with IVs in his arm.

So I decided that once Dad was stable, there was no way I was letting him stay in this place with its coughing choirs and sticky floors. I would arrange for him to finish the rest of his treatment at home.

Hours passed, or maybe it was just minutes. But time felt like melted gum, slow and annoying. I checked the big clock on the wall every thirty seconds, tapping my heels against the floor like a ticking bomb.

By the time a doctor finally called, “Miss Beaumont?” I was already halfway out of my seat.

“Yes!”

“Follow me.”

I nearly tripped on my own feet running up to her. She led me through a maze of white hallways until we reached a room. My stomach flipped before I even walked inside.

Through the glass panel in the door, I saw him. My dad. My everything. Lying in bed with IVs hanging next to him, bandages around his head and bruises that didn’t belong on him. His hair was messy, his skin pale, but his eyes lit up the moment they landed on me.

“Daddy,” I whispered, opening the door and running to his side. I bent down, hugged him, probably too tight, but I didn’t care.

“My princess,” he groaned softly, smiling even though I could tell it hurt. “Go easy on me, hun. These bones aren’t as young as they used to be.”

I pulled back, blinking hard because no way was I crying here. “What happened? You look like—” my eyes scanned the bruises on his arm, the bandage on his shoulder— “like you were attacked or something.”

He chuckled weakly. “Don’t worry about that. I just tripped over a stair. I’ve got it under control.”

“Under control? You’re literally lying here with needles sticking out of you. That’s your definition of control?”

“Don’t fuss, Arielle.” He patted my hand like I was five years old again. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

I folded my arms, giving him my best ‘don’t play with me’ face. “You know you can tell me anything, right? If there’s something I should know…”

His eyes softened but also carried that stubborn Beaumont face before he sighed. “I’ll figure it out, sweetheart. You don’t need to carry my problems.”

That was the thing about my dad. He’d carry the whole damn world if it meant I didn’t have to lift a feather. But sometimes it made me feel like a child all over again, like I wasn’t capable of handling reality.

I held his hand, nails clicking softly against his skin. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend everything is fine when it’s clearly not. You forget, I’ve been around you my whole life. I know when you’re hiding something.”

His lips twitched into a little smile. “And I know when you need me to smile, even if it hurts.”

I wanted to argue, but my throat tightened. Instead, I just sat on the edge of the bed and rested my head against his shoulder. For a moment, the world outside didn’t matter. Despite my frustration, my chest warmed. No matter how complicated life got, Daddy always found a way to make me feel safe. Like the world could burn outside, and it would still be okay because he was here.

We talked for a while. About random things. The ridiculous gossip from earlier, the fruit cake that tasted like expired cardboard, how I was totally canceling Esmeralda as my “friend” because she was more excited about Logan’s cheating video than my actual feelings. He laughed, and it was weak, but it was still his laugh, so I clung to it like it was oxygen.

Then a nurse came in with a new IV bag, fiddling with his infusion line. I shifted out of the way, opening my purse to check out if they were still gossiping about me. Except… my phone wasn't there.

I started digging deeper, pulling out lipsticks, gum wrappers, tissues, my wallet… everything else except my phone. I checked again, unzipping every compartment like it might magically appear if I looked aggressively enough.

“What are you looking for?” Daddy noticed, raising a brow as the nurse adjusted the speed of the infusion.

“My phone.” I kept digging, my movements getting faster, more frantic. “Did I… did I give it to you earlier?”

He frowned. “No. Why?”

“Because it’s not here.” I dumped my purse upside down onto the chair. Lipstick rolled out, a pen, three receipts, and half a packet of mints.

My heartbeat spiked. “Oh my God. I can't lose my phone, I just got it two months ago!”

Dad tried to sit up straighter. “Arielle, calm down. Where did you last have it?”

I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to rewind the last two hours. Then it hit me. That stupid car. The driver with gray eyes who looked like trouble disguised as a man.

“I think… I left it in the car.”