“You’ve got to do it. Let me find one for you,” Savannah suggested.
Eve rolled her eyes. “I’ve already interviewed five potential bodyguards. They were all Neanderthals.”
Eve stood, all five feet of her in her billowy blue caftan, and faced her agent. She knew Savannah thought her eccentric; but hell, that’s what authors were supposed to be.
Savannah laughed and replied, “Eve, darling, that’s the point. You need someone around you who’s hairy and scary and fends off any crazies who harangue you.”
“Savannah. Darling.” Eve paused for dramatic effect. “I’ve written one novel in my 78 years. My fictional account of half-human aliens vising our planet surprisingly became a virulent success, and I suddenly have a fandom of millions. Still, only one wacko tried to tackle me at my last reading. I don’t need a bodyguard. I need someone else’s novel to come along and take my book off the #1 bestseller list. In a matter of weeks, I’ll be a forgotten has-been.”
Eve strolled over to the large picture window that faced the well-manicured garden, flowering now with peonies and pansies, iris and asters. A muscled man pulled the heavy, old-fashioned lawn mower that she insisted her landscaper use. She didn’t like the noise of the gas-powered ones.
But this chestnut-skinned man, bronzed from the sun with muscles that rippled while he worked, caught the author’s attention.
The gardener stopped mowing, bent down, and pushed his arm toward a nearby rhododendron bush. Eve’s mouth dropped open. A furry gray baby squirrel crawled slowly toward the man’s arm, which gleamed like gold in the sun.
Tattoos? Eve wondered.
The squirrel cuddled in the crook of the man’s elbow. The gardener stood up – must be at least six foot five, Eve guessed, and approached a tall oak tree in which a larger squirrel jabbered angrily.
The baby squirrel jumped from the man’s arm and raced up the three trunk to its mama, who seemed to – did the mama squirrel just salute her baby’s rescuer?
“Savannah!” Eve shouted. “I’ve found my bodyguard!”