I sigh, sitting back on my heels in front of the kitchen table, examining the tableau I’ve set out one more time. Technically, it looks fine — a small pyramid of jam jars, a bunch of flowers in a mason jar, all on a checkered napkin on a rustic wooden table — but when I do this, it always looks like a collection of items I’ve shoved together instead of a picture.

The heavy camera thuds softly against my chest as I lean forward, chin on the table, and try to figure out what looks wrong. For once, I’m alone in the informal dining room, and I can let my guard down for thirty seconds.

I can sigh. Roll my eyes. Be annoyed that I’m so crappy at things that my mom and sisters make look so easy.

Stop keeping sweet for a couple of minutes, because keeping a perfect, angelic smile on your face all the time, acting like the Most Blessed Girl In The World, no matter what you really think? It’s exhausting.

Chin still resting on the table, I reach out and nudge a snapdragon, then scoot the mason jar full of flowers — grown in our garden, by my mother, of course — closer to the three jam jars, stacked in a pyramid.

It doesn’t help, but I’m out of ideas, so I raise the camera and start taking pictures. Ever since my parents took me in again, I’ve been helping my mother with her homemaking blog. It’s a huge part of her and my father’s image as the perfect old-fashioned, traditional, woman-at-home, man-at-work couple.

The blog also brings in a fair amount of money, from advertisements, as well as campaign donations, despite my mother’s talk of women ideally having no income of their own. Actually, all her daughters are part of my father’s career and campaign in some way. We work, we just don’t get paid.

I’m pretty sure that makes my parents hypocrites, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

I snap a few more pictures, and the door to the kitchen opens and someone walks in. Someone’s always walking in, no matter where I am, so I just ignore it until the footsteps stop about five feet away from me.

I take one last picture and look over. It’s Gabriel.

I’m not exactly surprised, because he is my bodyguard, but my heart does skip a beat. Since he got in yesterday he’s been spending most of his time getting up to speed on his duties here, meeting with my the rest of my father’s security team, that sort of thing.

While I’m stuck in the house, at least, I’m not in that much danger. It’s traveling with my father for his campaign that’s the weak spot.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he says. “But I was hoping we could go over your new security procedures for the events this weekend.”

I rock back onto my feet, and Gabriel steps forward, offering me his hand, but I’m already standing. I fight the urge to take it anyway, just to feel his strong, rough fingers against mine.

Just the thought sends a slight tingle across my skin, and I wonder just what the hell is wrong with me.

“Of course,” I say, a smile on my face automatically. “I’m finished here. Have a seat.”

I move the jam tableau out of the way, definitely ruining it, and we both sit at the table, around the corner from each other. Gabriel’s not wearing a suit today, just slacks and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. My father doesn’t let his staff make many concessions to the heat, but at least he allows the men to remove their suit jackets when it’s above eighty degrees.

But that means I can just barely see the outline of the hard muscles in his shoulders, the way his wide shoulders fill out his shirt, his biceps bunching under his sleeves as he rests his hands on the table. My mouth goes dry, and I lower my eyes, trying not to look, even though I feel like there’s something strange and new vibrating through me.

“I generally find that operations go much more smoothly if the target — sorry, that’s you — is briefed on all the measures and procedures ahead of time,” he begins, placing a manila folder on the table.

“I see.”

“Stop me if you have any questions, of course,” he goes on. “Now, the event on Saturday is going to be indoors, and you’ll be sitting on stage behind the speakers. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that security is much easier at an indoor event, so I’ll likely be right off stage, keeping an eye on things without needing to intervene too much…”

Gabriel goes on about security. He’s got layouts and floor plans of the places we’ll be: the indoor speeches and ceremony on Saturday, then Sunday’s after-church outdoor rally, and he points out where I’ll be, where he’ll be, what the escape routes are, where any “dangerous elements” could be lurking.

In other words, he’s treating me like an adult. Like I’ve got some element of control over my own life, instead of like I’m a slightly shameful prop to be moved from one place to another while I smile and look pretty.

After the past couple of months, it’s a huge relief just to be told what’s going to happen. It’s a consideration I rarely get.

“Now, we’re not really expecting anything to happen,” he says, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward slightly. “As upsetting as those letters were, I don’t think the man who sent them has any sort of solid plan, nor do I think he has the military training to actually carry anything out.”

I look at Gabriel for a moment, then look away, through the window, then at the flowers on the table.

“I haven’t read them,” I say.

It’s not true. I read the two that I took, and they were creepy, but not terrifying — one was just describing a television appearance I did in detail, and another went on for a full two pages about my pretty, pretty hair.

Honestly, I was more concerned with trying to figure out whether it was my father’s handwriting, disguised, or not. It could be someone else on his staff, though I’m not sure who he’d trust enough to ask for that sort of favor.

Gabriel exhales, tapping one finger against the wooden table. I remember to smile at him.

“You probably should,” he says. “They’re pretty upsetting, and they say some pretty ugly things, but in my opinion it’s always best that the target understands their stalker as best they can. That way you’ll be more able to assess situations for yourself.”

I must have stolen the wrong letters, I think. The ones I read were creepy, but not really upsetting.

“I haven’t read them because I’m not permitted,” I explain. “My father says they’re much too graphic and upsetting for ladies.”

Gabriel swallows, then lowers his voice.

“Does this room have the same echo problem as the rest of the house?” he asks.

“Not if there’s no one else in it.”

He leans forward slightly, and now he’s close enough that I can smell him: the faint scent of Old Spice, combined with an earthy smell, cedar or something. It makes something sinewy and hot constrict around my stomach.

“I get the feeling you’re not as easily upset as the Senator thinks,” Gabriel says, his voice low and gravelly.

I scrunch my toes in my shoes, but my smile doesn’t waver.

“Why would you think that?”

Gabriel half-smiles, a cocky little smirk that I haven’t seen him make before. My toes scrunch harder.

“You just don’t seem the type,” he says. “I’ve met a lot of delicate flowers, and you’re not one of them. In this kind of job you learn to read people pretty quickly. Get a sense of what they can handle. And I think these letters would piss you off, but I don’t think you’d fall to pieces or anything.”

“Well,” I say softly. “That’s not up to me to decide, is it?”

I almost tell him that I’ve got a few, but I bite my tongue. Just because he’s nice to look at and he’s making one overture of kindness right now doesn’t mean he won’t be in my father’s pocket this time next week.

“It should be,” he says.

“You should tell my father that.”

“I need to keep this job.”

“Then I guess I won’t be reading these letters.”

We lock eyes, and my smile fades. His gaze is a deep blue, the color of the ocean miles away from the shore where all you can see is water and horizon. I can tell he’s got a thousand million questions about what’s going on here, what he’s gotten himself into, but I can’t answer any of them right now.

“Gabriel,” I start, glancing at my hands on the table.

“Yes?”

I look him dead in the eyes again. I don’t smile.

“You should forget everything you’ve just said to me,” I say, my voice low and quiet. “As far as you know, I’m the most fragile, delicate flower in the world. I’ll fall apart if my stalker so much as looks as me the wrong way. Just trust me.”

Gabriel opens his mouth, but the dining room door opens again and we both sit up straight instantly.

My youngest brother Paul, Joy’s twin, pokes his head through. He’s going through a surly stage right now.

“Kyle’s here,” he says. “Mother says walk him through the garden, it’s important.”

He disappears.

I glance at Gabriel again. Half a second later, I remember to smile, which is the opposite of how Kyle makes me feel.

“Please excuse me,” I say. “But thank you for the overview. It was very thoughtful of you.”

“Of course,” Gabriel says, rising as well.

I leave the dining room without looking back at him, no matter how much I want to.

* * *

Kyle’s waiting right outside the back door, a bouquet of daisies at his side. When he sees me, he smiles nervously, his wet lips stretching just a little too far over his teeth, and holds them out.

“These reminded me of you,” he says.

I take them, the smile plastered on my face.

“Thank you,” I say. “They’re lovely.”

Last Valentine’s Day, I know Kyle and I both sat through the same sermon, given by the Reverend Russell Dawson of the Word of God Apostolic Covenant Church, on whether flowers were too sinful to be given as a token of affection between unmarried couples.

The answer: yes, mostly, because they represent the female parts. Only a few flowers — daisies, for one — are innocent enough to be given as a token of unwed affection.

“I was nearby and thought you might appreciate the company on a quiet Friday afternoon,” Kyle starts, folding his hands behind himself and rocking forward on his toes.

“I always appreciate your company,” I lie, keeping my voice soft.

Kyle just nods and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I had a very eventful week,” he says. “Since Raising Up Godly Sons was released last week, the Reverend has been continually dogged in the press. It’s enough to wear down a lesser man, but God has given him the strength to battle on…”

This is a one-way conversation, so I don’t really bother listening. All that’s required of me right now is to nod and say mhm every so often, and as long as I keep smiling, Kyle will never know the difference.

There’s a good reason that the Reverend’s book, Raising Up Godly Sons, has been released to serious criticism and scorn, at least from anyone who isn’t somewhere to the right of the Westboro Baptist Church, politically speaking.

The Reverend’s own son, Lucas, is my ex-husband.

And he’s anything but godly, at least according to the Church’s definition.