Nanny for the SEALs by Cassie Cole

3

Heather

Maurice and I walked along the concourse, eyeing the suites in passing. All of them had closed doors, so we had no way to know who was in each one.

“Maybe I didn’t think this through,” I said.

Maurice pointed up ahead. “Someone’s coming out of that door… Oh. It’s a bachelorette party.”

“We’ll never fit in there,” I replied. “We need to find a suite that’s full of people from a local business. Then we can just pretend we work in some other department.”

“As long as you watch your mouth,” Maurice muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you curse like a sailor,” he replied. “That’s not appropriate in a company setting.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll watch my mouth. Ass.”

Maurice pointed at me. “That right there. That’s the language I’m talking about.”

“Ass barely counts as a curse. Stop worrying. I was a nanny for three years. If I could watch my language around those kids, I can do so here.”

Just as we were walking by one suite, the door suddenly opened. A man on a phone rushed out, gesturing angrily.

“Wonder what his problem is,” I muttered, craning my neck to try to see inside the suite. But the door was already closing.

Maurice’s head swiveled to follow the man. Then he started smacking me on the arm. “Heather. Heather! That was Jonah Weiman.”

I whipped my head around. “From The Weiman Agency?”

He gave me a look. “How many Jonah Weimans do you know?”

I squinted after the man, who was disappearing out of sight. “How sure are you?”

“Positive! I’ve got a spreadsheet of all the acting agencies I’ve applied to. Jonah Weiman is in the top tier, along with the other agents at The Weiman Agency and William Morris. I’ve submitted headshots to all of them. I haven’t heard back,” he added with a grumble, “but I’d know any of them on sight.”

“That’s perfect then,” I said. “That’s our suite.”

Maurice did a double-take. “Are you crazy?”

“This is so much better than finding some company suite to slip into,” I explained. “The booth is probably filled with agents and other actors. We’re actors, Maurice. It’s perfect.”

“Just because we’re actors doesn’t mean we’ll belong,” he argued. “We don’t know anyone in there. They’ll ask who invited us.”

“Then we’ll say we were invited by one of the other agents. Someone who isn’t there. You just said you have a spreadsheet full of them, right? Pick one, and that will be our cover story. We’ll blend in easily. And think about this—we can mention that we’re seeking representation. Maybe they’ll sign us! If you’ve already sent him headshots, this might jog his memory and push you over the edge!”

Maurice looked like he was going to be sick. “Mr. Howard says that if an agent doesn’t reply, it means they’re not interested.”

“Mr. Howard says a lot of things,” I replied dismissively. “This might be our only chance to be in the same room as someone like Jonah Weiman. You can talk to him, Maurice. Let him get to know you. That’s much better than just looking at a headshot. We have to take the chance! Come on.”

I took his hand and dragged him forward. Maurice was muttering under his breath. It sounded like a prayer.

I opened the suite door without hesitation. Confidence mattered. If you looked the part, you could get away with a lot in life. Just act like you belong.

And acting was literally our specialty.

I strode into the suite, head held high. There was a half-smile on my face, the kind I reserved for when I was playing a cocky character. I surveyed the room. It had a private bathroom to the right. There were two tables to the left, one with heating trays of food, and the other with a full bar and a dedicated bartender currently mixing a cocktail. Aside from the bartender, there were only seven other people in the room. There were a pair of couples—one woman had the worst boob job I’d ever seen in my life—and three jacked, hunky-looking guys in suits. Two of them had tattoos peeking out at the cuffs of their dress shirts.

There was a stack of business cards on the nearest table. The logo was shaped like a shield, but the lines spiraled inward like a maze. It was definitely not the logo of an acting agency.

“Heather!” Maurice whispered to me. “There aren’t enough people in here. We won’t be able to blend in.”

I immediately knew he was right. Half the people in the room were looking at us with curiosity. We were sticking out. This wasn’t going to work.

Before we could flee, one of the suited guys walked up to us. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he was probably the best-looking of the three hunky guys. Silky brown hair was parted along the side, and his cheeks were angular and smooth, like they had been chiseled out of marble by one of the Italian masters.

The cheeks widened in a perfect white smile as he extended his hand. “Rogan Holt. One-third of HLS Security. You must be… Amirah Pratt?”

I shook his hand—his very large, warm hand—and began to panic. He thought I was someone else. His dark eyes were boring into me with such intensity that it almost convinced me I was this Amirah Pratt woman.

It caught me off-guard. I had a whole big backstory invented. I was even tempted to test-drive my posh Londoner accent.

That’s right. I can do a flawless English accent. Tell your agents.

I should have corrected Rogan. It would have been smarter to tell him I was someone else—either my real name, or a made-up one. But with his hand totally enveloping mine and his smile melting my heart, I found myself nodding along with him.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holt,” I said in my normal voice.

He finally let go of my hand. “Please, call me Rogan.”

“Only if you call me Amirah!”

He pointed a finger at me and said, “You’ve got a deal.”

I grinned from ear to ear. I didn’t even need to fake it. This Rogan guy was gorgeous. I would be whoever he wanted me to be if it meant he kept looking at me like that.

Maurice introduced himself as Maurice (way to get creative, buddy) and they shook hands. Then Rogan gestured with his beer. “Just wanted to say hi, and welcome you to the suite. Help yourselves to the food and drinks. We can talk business later, if you’re interested. We heard you might be in need of our services.”

“Oh, I need all kinds of servicing from you,” I blurted out.

Maurice elbowed me in the ribs.

Rogan chuckled at that, then dipped away. Both of us watched his suited frame walk across the room and down into the seats overlooking the basketball court.

Maurice sighed. “What a shame.”

“What is?”

“What a shame that man is straight. I would let him do whatever he wants to me.” He glanced at me. “Dirtier things than you.”

I laughed and turned to the food. “You don’t know how dirty I am.”

“I bet you’re a prude in bed.”

I gasped in mock offense.

We helped ourselves to the buffet. I scolded Maurice when he tried to pile his plate high with food. We were supposed to be high-class guests, not starving aspiring actors who had conned our way onto this level. We got drinks from the bartender—a wine for Maurice, and a beer for me—and walked down to the seats overlooking the court. Music pumped through the arena as both teams—Lakers in purple, Bucks in green—ran down the court, one of them dribbling the ball.

“These are way better than our other seats,” I said, craning my neck to look up at the nosebleeds. They were so high up I almost expected cloud tendrils to drift by. “Aren’t you glad we’re here?”

Maurice was already stuffing his face with a second pulled-pork slider. “Do you know who Amirah Pratt is?”

“Someone who looks like me, apparently.”

Maurice swallowed his food and said, “She’s that girl on the new Netflix show. The one set in Victorian England, with all the sexy times. Amirah Pratt is famous. They’re going to figure out you’re not her.”

“I don’t see you complaining,” I muttered as he shoved two more pieces of food in his mouth.

While he chewed, he pulled up an image on his phone. The woman on the screen was wearing a multi-layered Victorian dress that probably took an hour to put on. Her face was pale with makeup and her hair was done up in a tower of elaborate ringlets. She did look like me, in broad strokes. Tall, blonde, and slender. At least, I thought she was slender. It was tough to tell with the hurricane of silk wrapped around her lower half.

“Look at all that makeup,” I pointed out. “They have no idea what she looks like without it. I can totally pass as her. Just act like we belong. Emphasis on act.”

Maurice opened his mouth to argue—or to shovel more food inside—but then stopped when two men walked down the steps next to us. It was the other two suited guys. They collapsed into the seats across the aisle from us, lost in conversation.

Well, not exactly conversation. The blond, spectacled guy was silent while the dark-haired guy ranted to him in a Boston accent.

“There’s no fucken way he’s better than Jordan. He’s good. Hell, he’s great. But there’s no comparison to the real goat. You’re a math guy, Asher. Count the rings.”

“I’m a tech guy,” the blond one—Asher?—said quietly.

“Whatever. You get what I’m saying. Oh shit! You see that dunk?”

Maurice leaned close to me and whispered, “I can’t decide which of the three is the most delicious.”

“Are either of them gay?” I asked.

Maurice smiled lustily at them. “After an hour with me? They would be.”

I giggled and sipped my beer. Maurice wasn’t wrong. They were every bit as sexy as Rogan, their dress shirts clinging to their muscular frames. They looked like they were in the military. The kind of guys that might abruptly have to leave town on a secret deployment.

“What did Rogan say they did?” I asked. “He said he was one-third of something…”

“A security company, I think.”

Maurice finished his last piece of food and looked sadly at his empty plate. As if on cue, Rogan got up from his seat across the aisle and came over to us.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

Maurice started to raise his plate, but I quickly said, “We’re fine for now, thank you.”

Maurice sighed, but Rogan’s attention was on me. He sat in the row in front of us and turned sideways so he could talk to us.

“We appreciate you coming out to the game. Hope you like the seats.”

“Yeah, they’re amazing. Thanks for having us.”

“Happy to do it, especially for potential clients.”

Potential clients. That made sense. They looked like bodyguards. And Rogan already mentioned me needing his services. They were probably hoping that Amirah Pratt—the real one—would hire them for protection or something. If she was a big Netflix star, then she probably had a lot of crazy fans.

And I’m just an aspiring actor who has to steal food and alcohol from a suite. Maybe I had bitten off more than I could chew.

“Do you live in the city?” Rogan asked.

“We’re out in the valley,” I lied. I had never even been up there, but I knew that’s where a lot of famous people lived. Not to mention it’s where many of the film studios were located.

Rogan nodded along. “How long have you two been engaged?”

I hesitated. He was looking at my diamond ring. But was the real Amirah Pratt engaged? That would blow my cover immediately.

“Oh, we’re not engaged,” I said, smiling over at Maurice. “I just wear the ring to keep people from hitting on me while I’m in public.”

“Smart,” Rogan said. “I bet you get asked out everywhere you go.”

I smiled in spite of everything. It was flattering having a guy this hot—did I mention how sexy he was?—flirting with me. Catering to me like I was the guest of honor at the suite. Sure, I got hit on when I went out, but Rogan wasn’t like the kind of dude who hung out at sports bars after work. He was different. He was exceptional.

Then I remembered that he was only treating me this way because he thought I was a famous actress.

Yeah, I won’t lie. That stung a little.

Rogan nodded at my empty glass. “Want another beer?”

“I’d love one,” I said, handing him my empty glass. He disappeared back into the suite.

“How long do you think we can pull this off?” Maurice whispered.

“I don’t know! I’m kind of winging it.”

Rogan returned and handed me the beer. “I heard you’ve had some trouble with crazy fans. Death threats, stuff like that?”

I shrugged and sipped my beer to give myself a moment to think. “Oh, you know. The same as anyone in Hollywood!”

Rogan sat down in the seat in front of me and rested an arm across the back. “HLS Security offers a variety of protection services, depending on what you need. Or what you think you need. It’s okay to be over-protected, as long as it makes you feel comfortable.” He gestured at his two partners in the other seats. “Brady, Asher, and I started the company when we got back from the Middle-East. We have fifty-five other bodyguards working for us—mostly in Southern California, the Bay Area, and New York—but we’re the original three.”

“I would love to have a guy like you watching my back,” I said, like a fawning teenager.

Rogan smiled back at me with his confident, dark-eyed gaze. “Trust me. The pleasure would be all mine.”

Maurice must have felt left out because he cleared his throat. “Do you know where Jonah Weiman went?”

“He had to take a phone call. He’ll probably be back soon.” Rogan stretched his neck to look back into the suite. “How do you like him?”

I hesitated. “He’s, uh… I think he’s a nice guy? I don’t really, um…”

“I meant how do you like him as an agent?” Rogan clarified. “He said he’s working on getting you a part on a movie?”

Shit-nuggets. This Amirah Pratt woman was already a client of Jonah Weiman. That meant two very important things. One, Maurice and I wouldn’t be able to convince him to take us on as clients.

And two: he would immediately know I wasn’t Amirah Pratt. Because he knew the real Amirah Pratt.

As soon as Jonah Weiman returned, we were screwed.

Double shit-nuggets.