He sets the tray, eyeing the mimosas warily. "Eat fast. You’ve got fittings."
I nod, and then dig in. "These pancakes are perfection. Try one."
"No carbs before ops."
"Ops? It's lingerie, not war."
"With you? Feels like war." But he takes a bite from my fork, our eyes locking. Heat simmers low in my belly.
Post-breakfast, we head to the venue—escorted by two Heartline guys. Mack's hand is on my elbow. It’s possessive, but I don't pull away. I like it, actually.
The city's alive: couples kissing in booths, heart balloons everywhere. Paparazzi snap us—Mack glares them off.
At the showcase hall, security's tripled. Backstage, designers fuss over me. Fittings: lace bras, silk teddies, all red and pink. I change behind a screen, but Mack's nearby, eyes always scanning.
"Like the view?" I call, emerging in a sheer robe over a crimson bra-and-panty set. Trying my best to taunt him.
His gaze heats, jaw clenching. "Focus on the job."
"This is my job." I strut, posing. "Rate it. On a scale of 'protocol breach' to 'damn'."
He looks away, but not before I catch the hunger. "It's... fine."
"Fine? Ouch." I twirl closer. "Admit it looks good."
"It looks dangerous." Voice low, rough.
"For who? You or the audience?"
"Both." He steps up, adjusting my robe tie—fingers grazing against my heated skin. Electric. "Don't tempt fate."
"Or what? You'll bodyguard me harder?" I challenge, heart pounding.
His breath fans my neck. "You have no idea."
Almost... I tilt up, lips parting. I want it.Bad.His eyes drop, hand stilling.
Coco, the designer interrupts: "Indigo! Next set!"
Mack retreats. Again, and frustration boils, but it's thrilling. He's cracking.
Rehearsal drags—struts, poses, lights. Mack watches like a hawk. Lunch break: we eat in a secure room. "Is there any progress on the stalker?"
"Cass says Derek's holed up in a motel. Team's watching. Lila skipped a meeting. It’s suspicious."
"Good. Maybe it'll end before the show."
"Maybe." He hands me water. "Hydrate."
"Bossy." But I sip, slowly. My eyes watching him. Does he have to be so darn good-looking all the time. It’s exhausting.
By late afternoon,I taunt Mack via texts while changing—Bored? Send pics of your protocols.He replies:Focus.
Fun. But underneath, my feelings grow. His protectiveness, the rare chuckles. It’s real.
Once we’re done and Coco has declared me ready to kick ass, we head back to the penthouse. I’m exhausted, and collapse on the couch. "Massage time. Vetted masseuse?"
He nods, calling one up. While waiting, we review the footage from today. Mack’s on his laptop, and I lean over his shoulder. "See? That strut needs work."
