"You good?" he asks again, hanging up and turning those eyes on me fully. No softness, just assessment.
I force a laugh, light and airy, like this is just another quirky fan gift. "Peachy. Who knew confetti could be so... explosive? Must be Cupid City's way of saying welcome."
He doesn't smile. Of course not. The man probably thinks smiling is a security risk. "Sit down. Drink some water. Adrenaline crash incoming."
I wave him off, sauntering to the minibar instead. My toes curling against the cool floor. Feels vulnerable, but I won't admit it. I pour a sparkling water, the fizz matching the buzz in my veins. "I'm fine, Mack. Really. This isn't my first rodeo. Someone broke into my place in Saint Pierce." I think back to me on the couch, tea in my hand. The sound of the alarm blaring through the night. I shiver. “There’s weirdos everywhere."
He crosses his arms, biceps flexing. Damn it, why does he have to look like that? Like he could pick me up and—stop.Hard shell, Indigo."Weirdos who rig flowers with shrapnel? That's not a fan. That's a threat."
The word "threat" lands like a punch. My hand trembles as I sip, but I hide it by turning away, pretending to admire the view. Cupid City's skyline twinkles below, all heart-shaped neon and Valentine vibes. It's supposed to be fun—a reboot for my brand. After the scandal last year, the one where my ex leaked those photos and tanked my "untouchable" image, I needed this.Lingerie showcase, hearts and lace, the girl-next-door with a sexy edge. Not the scared rabbit I feel like inside.
But scared? Yeah. Deep down, where no one sees. The notes started months ago—harmless at first, poetry about my "blooming beauty." Then they got personal. Details about my routines, my favorite coffee spot in Milan. The final straw was the break-in. And now this. What if next time it's not confetti? What if it's real? I swallow hard, masking it with another sip.
Mack's watching me too closely. "You're not fine. Your hands are shaking."
I set the glass down harder than intended. "Observant, aren't you? Must be all that military training. Or is it just your superpower—spotting weakness?"
He steps closer, towering without trying. His scent hits me—clean soap, faint gun oil, something woodsy. Attractive. Annoying. "It's my job. And right now, my job is keeping you alive. So drop the act."
"Act?" I spin to face him, chin up, runway fierce. "This is me, big guy. Glamour and grit. If I crack, the world sees it, and poof—brand over. So forgive me if I don't curl up in a ball."
His jaw ticks, but there's a flicker in his eyes. Respect? Or just pity? "Fine. Play tough. But when I say jump?—"
"I ask how high. Yeah, yeah." I mock-salute, but my voice wavers just a touch. Damn it.
The elevator dings, and Mack's instantly in front of me, hand on his hip where I assume his gun hides. Two guys in suits burst in—Heartline team, from the looks. King, the driver from earlier, and another with a toolkit.
"Clear the room," Mack orders. They fan out, sweeping with devices that beep and whir.
I retreat to the couch, sinking into the plush cushions. My mind races. Who could this be? An ex-fan turned stalker? A rival model? The industry’s cutthroat—I've stepped on toes climbing to the top. Or maybe it's tied to the reboot. Someone doesn't want me succeeding.
Mack joins me after a minute, perching on the armrest like he's ready to spring. Too close. His thigh brushes mine, heat seeping through his pants. I shift away, but not before noticing how solid he feels. Gorgeous and capable. The attraction stirs again. It’s an unwelcome feeling.
"Talk to me," he says, softer than before. "Any enemies? Exes? Business rivals?"
I huff a laugh. "Where do I start? Modeling's a shark tank. My last agent? Fired him after he skimmed commissions. Ex-boyfriend? The one who sold my pics to the tabloids. And fans... well, some get obsessed."
He nods, jotting notes on his phone. "We'll run backgrounds. In the meantime, rehearsal's canceled."
"What? No!" I stand up, fire overriding fear. "The showcase is in two days. I can't bail."
"You can and you will. Until we assess?—"
"Assess this." I jab a finger at his chest—hard muscle, unyielding. "I'm not hiding. That's what they want. I show up, I shine, I win."
He stands up, towering over me. His eyes narrow, but there's heat there now. Not anger. Something else. Attraction? No, can't be. He's all protocols. "You're stubborn as hell."
"And you're a control freak." I smirk, masking the flutter in my stomach. "Bet you hate that."
A ghost of a smile tugs his lips. "You have no idea."
The team finishes, declaring the suite clear but taking the bouquet remnants for analysis. Mack dismisses them, then turns back to me. "Fine. Rehearsal stays—if we double security. But you stick to me like glue."
"Romantic," I drawl, but inside, relief floods me. Not alone. With him. The gorgeous grump who just saved me from glitter Armageddon.
We head out an hour later, after I freshen up. Makeup flawless, hair tousled just right—mask on. In the elevator, our reflections stare back: me in my power dress, him in tactical black. We look like a mismatched couple from a romcom. Fake date optics, he called it. Ha.
The lobby's a Valentine explosion—hearts dangling from ceilings, couples snapping selfies. Paparazzi lurk outside, but Mack clears a path, his hand on my elbow. Firm. Protective. A shiver runs down my spine.
