Tempting the Bodyguard

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Spread across the recently polished coffee table, twenty letters were open and faceup. The faint smell of lemon lingered in the air, a scent that reminded Alana Gore of her grandmother’s house. Granny Gore had been obsessed with Pine-Sol like it was a geriatric version of crack cocaine. Everything, including the hardwood floors, had been doused in the stuff. As a small child, Alana had spent many of her afternoons after school using the hallway downstairs in the quiet home as a Slip’N Slide.

Granny had always kept everything neat and clean, to the point that it was borderline disturbing, which explained why Alana, as an adult, couldn’t stand things to be displaced or messy. Everything had to be in order and have a purpose.

And what was resting on her coffee table definitely was not a part of the plan—of any plan.

Alana took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, shit on a shitter.”

Granny rolled over in her grave.

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