Guarding His Sunshine (Men of Valor Springs #9)

Chapter One

Missy

Pick up!

Please pick up!

I groan when the call sends me straight to voicemail yet again, and my heart sinks a little when I hear the familiar beep on the line. With a frustrated groan, I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and run a trembling hand through my hair, pushing back the need to cry.

It’s okay. He’ll call me back soon. It’s fine. You’re fine.

I close my eyes and force in deep breaths, pushing back all the negative thoughts like that website said I should do whenever I’m close to having a panic attack. It mentioned something about thinking positive thoughts. Apparently, I’m supposed to picture myself standing in a field of tulips, feeling the warm rays of the sun on my skin and breathing in the sweet scent of the…

“It’s not working!” I cry out, flopping back on my seat with another groan and kicking my feet in frustration. It’s not like me to throw a fit, but I can’t think any “positive thoughts” over everything that’s happened, and the loud beeping of the fuel gauge isn’t helping matters. I know I need to climb out of my car to fill up on gas and at least take care of one problem, but I can’t move.

The truth is, I am terrified.

I’m scared out of mind that he might be somewhere outside lurking, waiting for me to get out of my car so he can grab me. I don’t know what he’ll do to me if he catches me, and the worst part is…I don’t even know what my stalker looks like.

It could be anyone!

For a week now, I’ve been getting notes slipped under my apartment door. At first the notes were simple, compliments about my hair and singing voice, all innocent really, but their presence alone frightened me. I knew they’d been written by a man because of wording he used and how he described himself. And when they increased in frequency and became more graphic in detail, I told my manager about the notes. I thought he too would be concerned. As an artist under his management, I figured my safety would be his top priority.

I was wrong. Naive to think I am anything but a cash cow to the man.

Instead of taking the notes seriously, he simply brushed off my concerns and told me I was overreacting. Then his indifference turned to annoyance before downright accusing me of writing the notes myself for attention.

“Who the fuck even hand-writes notes in this digital age? If you want attention that badly, there are better ways to go about it.”

So, I pushed it all down, convinced myself that I was overreacting. It was probably just a fan who’d found out where I lived. It wasn’t comfortable, but they weren’t hurting me, so I was set on ignoring it.

Until last night.

The memory of walking out of the shower to see a note on my nightstand still sends chills down my spine. My stalker had been in my apartment while I was in the shower. There was nothing innocent about it anymore. He broke into my apartment, and I shudder to imagine what would have happened if he had decided to stay.

So yeah, I grabbed whatever I could from the closet, tossed it into a bag, and left the city in a hurry. I could have called my manager or the cops, but who’s to say they’d believe me this time? The other notes weren’t enough to convince anyone, I doubt this would be either, and the fact that the stalker was able to get in without leaving any signs of a break-in wouldn’t help my case either.

So, I left.

In the middle of the night, with my hair still wet from the shower, I grabbed my things and fled the apartment, looking over my shoulder the entire time. I drove out of the city in the direction of the one person I knew would believe me.

Sebastian Foster.

He’s been in the industry for close to a decade, long enough to have encountered an overzealous fan at least once or twice in his career. He’ll believe me when I tell him about it. Once I finally get in touch with him, I know he’ll believe me, and maybe he’ll help me, give me the advice my manager and the police will not.

My eyes cross back to the phone, but the screen remains frustratingly blank. I must have caught him at a busy time. He’ll call back. I know he will. Soon, this nightmare will be over.

My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white as I glance around the nearly empty lot. It’s eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of my car’s engine and the distant sound of a car passing by.

Taking a deep breath, I finally convince myself to step out of the car. The door swings open, and I wince at the sound, suddenly feeling exposed. I glance over my shoulder, scanning the area for any signs of movement or suspicious individuals, but there is only an attendant dosing on a chair in the distance. Their presence brings me little comfort.

It’s okay, Missy . “You are a million miles away from the city.” Not quite, but the words bolster me anyway.

I fumble with the gas cap, my fingers shaky, and I can’t help but look around, half expecting to see someone watching from a distance. The sunlight casts long shadows that make every corner seem like a hiding spot, and that thought alone sends chills running down my body. My hands are trembling as I pay for the gas. I clasp the cool metal pump and start to fill the tank, watching the numbers tick upward.

Breathe, Missy. Deep and slow!

The sharp scent of gasoline fills the air, and I catch a faint aroma of coffee wafting from the convenience store nearby. I’m tempted to go in and get myself a cup, but I don’t want to risk walking too far from the car. It’s probably for the best. My mind is already racing with every little noise, and caffeine is the last thing I need when I’m this jumpy.

My heart is still racing when I replace the pump, and I’m about to climb back into my car when the sound of a throat clearing scares the living daylights out of me. I quickly turn around, expecting to find some scary-looking guy, but it’s young man, no older than a teen, with a slight build. He’s shifting from foot to foot and has his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He looks harmless and a little nervous. I should probably force a laugh at my overreaction—anything to clear this awkward moment—but my heart is beating too loud for me to think straight. I glance over his shoulder and notice a dark sedan a few pumps over. It’s unoccupied, so it must be his. I assume he pulled into the station while I’d been occupied starting the pump.

“Hi, sorry,” the man says sheepishly, rocking on his heels as he flashes me a wide smile. His startling green eyes light up with the smile, and that immediately puts me at ease. He looks so young, with a bowl cut and acne. A local high schooler perhaps? “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine,” I say, waving off his concern.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” he apologizes again, “I thought I recognized you and just wanted to be sure,” he says, eyes widening at his words before quickly adding, “I don’t mean to sound like a creep, but I think I’ve seen you online before. I remember because I thought you were so pretty.”

“I…uh, thanks.”

“You’re the singer rumored to have been dating Sebastian Foster, right?”

I chuckle, but it’s awkward at best. “That was weeks ago; I’m surprised anyone remembers that.”

“I only heard about it recently,” he says, and my smile falters when he doesn’t drop it. “You are not actually dating Sebastian Foster, are you? I’m sorry if I sound nosy. I swear I’m not a stalker or anything, just chronically online.”

The way he says stalker sends a shiver down my back, but I push down my fears. It’s rare for me to be recognized in public, but after the dating rumors my label pushed of me and Sebastian, I’ve found myself in the spotlight. The attention hasn’t been all positive.

“No, Sebastian and I are just friends.” Will only ever be friends despite my manager’s best efforts to force us into a fake public relationship. A PR relationship that was meant to get my name out there and help Sebastian’s image, but I don’t tell this stranger any of that. “I’m actually in a hurry, do you need something? An autograph or photo…?”

“Yes, that would be great!” He beams, fumbling as he pats his pockets for what I assume is his phone, chuckling nervously when he finds it. The smile on his face stays as he moves closer to me to take the shot. I follow suit, flashing my camera-friendly smile I’ve practiced a million times in my bathroom mirror. He takes a few snaps before turning to face me. “That was perfect. Thank you so much. It’s not often a celebrity passes through here. At least not one as gorgeous as you.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, already reaching behind me to grasp my car door handle.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Taylor Swift? Not this new pop version of her, God no!” He visibly shudders. “The country version, with pretty blonde curls, gorgeous blue eyes, and a lovely, innocent smile.”

My heart is racing when I finally pull open the car door. “Uh, yeah, I get that a lot.”

“I hope you never lose that innocent smile.” The kid steps back, his own smile in place as he watches me climb into my car. “Well, have a great trip, Missy.”

It doesn’t register that the kid used my name until I am tearing away from the gas station. Even then, I don’t let myself focus too much on it. It’s not the first time someone has told me I look like one or another celebrity, it’s just no one else had never been that weird about it. And no one else has called me by the nickname my friends and family use. To my fans, I’m Melissa Sullivan.

No, I can’t afford to worry about that. I have other things to think about. Like getting in touch with Sebastian Foster, the man my manager tried to set me up with for publicity. At first, I wasn’t willing to go along with the idea. Sebastian is a very nice guy and all, but I didn’t feel a connection to him when we first met in person. As a hopeless romantic, I wanted more for myself than a PR relationship. I wanted sparks and chemistry, which I have never experienced with anyone before. I didn’t want my fame built on a lie.

The short-lived publicity stunt got me the popularity my label wanted, but out of it all, an unlikely friendship was formed between Sebastian and me.

A friendship I am hoping I can lean on now.

It’s not until I’ve passed the Valor Springs town sign that my phone starts ringing, the sound echoing through the car speakers, and my heart nearly gives out as relief floods in. I press the button to connect the call, expecting Sebastian’s voice to come through the speakers.

“Where the fuck are you?”

And my heart drops. “Gary—”

“You have an appointment at six with that new producer to discuss your next release,” my manager’s voice breaks through the speakers. “Where the hell are you, Missy!”

“I… The stalker left me another note last night. He didn’t just slip it under the door this time. He left it on my nightstand. He was in my apartment, Gary!”

The man makes a strangled noise. “This nonsense again? I have told you a million times that you have no stalker!”

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear this shit anymore. You get a little attention in the media, and suddenly you think everyone’s out to get you.”

It’s pointless.

Fighting my manager on this like I have countless times before is pointless. Up until this moment, I’ve bent to the man’s will, letting him convince me that I was all up in my head, but it’s not his life at risk. It’s mine! “I’m not coming, Gary, not until he’s caught—”

“For fuck’s sake!” he rages. “This is what I get for signing brats. You better not embarrass me, Missy! I pulled a fuck ton of strings to get this producer, so you better get your ass to the studio in the next hour, or you can kiss your contract goodbye. And wear something photo ready.”

The line goes dead before I can tell him I’m hours away from the city, in Valor Springs. I bet he won’t like the sound of that, but he needs to know where the hell I’m going. By calling him back, I risk getting yelled at again, so it’s probably better if I just text him.

I take my eyes off the road for a brief second when I suddenly hear a blaring horn as I cross through an intersection. The sound nearly gives me a heart attack, so I glance at my review mirror to see cars behind me braking abruptly, their headlights flashing.

Oh God!

I just ran a red light!

I feel a surge of panic, my heart racing as I quickly check my surroundings, making sure no one was hurt by my carelessness. I took my eyes off the road for only a second to grab my phone. One second!

A cop car’s siren blares behind me, and I glance in the rearview mirror, seeing the flashing lights.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I slowly pull over to the side of the road and notice that the cop does so as well, turning off the sirens. My brain runs through all the possible scenarios of what might happen next, but I keep landing on one.

I was reckless, and now I’m going to get a ticket, or worse, arrested.

Holding my breath, I watch the driver’s door of the cop car push open and a uniformed man step into my line of view. He’s tall, easily towering over my small sedan, and his muscular frame is evident from several feet away. The man is built like a mountain, and I notice the uniform fits snugly over his broad shoulders, the fabric stretching slightly as he moves. As the officer comes closer, the badge gleaming on his chest catches the light and reminds me of the fact that the last thing I need to be doing is ogling the man.

I’m going to jail. Maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing. On the bright side, at least my stalker can’t get to me once I’m behind steel bars, right?

I wouldn’t last a day in prison!

I feel a knot tightening in my stomach, the weight of everything leading up to this moment pressing down on me as I prepare for whatever is going to happen next. No, I can’t go to jail. I don’t even know how to defend myself, so what happens when a brawl breaks out in the cafeteria? I’ve seen it in the movies, I would be crushed if that were to happen.

Think, Missy. Think!

I search my mind for what I might do to get out of this. Seduce him, maybe? But I’ve never seduced anyone before. Maybe I can lean into his sympathetic side, but the man has the countenance of a grizzly bear, he doesn’t look like the kind to be moved by tears.

The officer approaches my window, and I quickly roll it down, my jaw dropping when I finally get a good look at the man that is going to arrest me. All thoughts leading up to this moment disappear as I gape at the man staring down at me.

His eyes are gray—piercing, and mesmerizing in their allure, challenging when they lock on mine. His dark hair is cropped short, the strands slightly tousled, giving him a rugged look. He doesn’t look like any cop I’ve seen before.

There is a wild fluttering in my stomach that has nothing to do with the fear of getting arrested. I gasp when the area between my legs begins to tingle and wetness pools the private spot that only I have ever explored. My cheeks flare at the feeling, half terrified that the man can tell what is happening to me in this moment.

“Hello, Officer—”

I break our stare and find myself gazing at his lips, which are set in a firm line, and God, I’ve never seen stubble look that good on anyone before. And that mouth…

Snap out of it, Missy!

“Ma’am, do you realize that you just ran a red light?”

And just like that, I am pulled back to reality by that deep voice that wraps around me and intensifies the feeling between my legs. It’s a rich timbre that rumbles and commands my full attention, making everything else fade into the background.

The man just asked me a question, but I don’t remember a word of it, and all I can manage is a dazed, “I’m sorry.”

“Ma’am, have you been drinking today?”

I’m about to respond, but just then, my phone pings with a text and then another and another, and soon, there is a continuous buzz as a dozen messages flood in. We both turn to the device that is still buzzing, and I am almost afraid to touch it. There are bigger things to be worried about, like ending up in prison. Whoever is texting me can wait.

“Sorry, Officer, I’ll just turn this off,” I say, panicked, grabbing the phone, ready to switch it off when something on the screen grabs my attention. Against my better judgment, I tap on it, and image after image floods my screen.

There are pictures. Of me.

In my apartment building. Outside my manager’s office. At the coffee shop. At the restaurant I frequent. Everywhere I’ve been to this week—including the gas station I was at less than half an hour ago.

Following the images is a single text message: Wherever you go, I will know, and I will follow.

I’m not crazy.

A part of me—one that was inclined to believe everyone who called me crazy—hoped that I was actually making it all up. That by some miracle, I was imagining the eyes I always felt on me.

I do have a stalker. And he knows I’ve left the city.