Chapter 3
THREE
STELLA
The moment I step into the town hall kitchen to grab more napkins, I feel it.
That weird, zippy, cupcake-tingling awareness that he is near.
Jack Sinclair.
My frosting-splattered bodyguard with the don’t-mess-with-me jawline and a voice that sounds like it was engineered to be played on a loop during stormy nights.
And maybe it’s because he keeps appearing right before something bad almost happens—or maybe it’s because he caught a literal cupcake midair and handed it back like it was a live grenade—but I cannot stop thinking about the man.
Also: the way he said my name.
Like it was a directive.
Like he liked saying it.
Like he might want to say it again, maybe at night, maybe when I’m wearing something a little more…not covered in powdered sugar.
“Hey, Hart?” a voice calls from the front hall, pulling me out of my daydream where Jack removes his sunglasses very slowly and maybe leans in a little too close.
“Yeah?”
“Lady from Channel 4’s here early. Wants a quick quote from someone ‘local and delightful.’” The volunteer grins. “You’ve been nominated.”
“Of course I have.” I sigh and wipe my hands on a towel. “Let me just—”
I bump right into a solid wall of Lone Star Security.
No, not a wall. A mountain.
Jack.
He’s in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes alert, mouth doing that not-quite-a-smile thing again. My towel flutters to the floor.
“Oh,” I say, brilliant as ever. “You again.”
“You okay?” he asks, that voice low and steady, like we’re not surrounded by PTA moms and a suspicious number of glitter-covered five-year-olds.
“I’ve been promoted to media liaison,” I say brightly. “Which is terrifying because I say things like ‘yeehaw is physics.’”
Jack huffs a laugh, and I swear it’s so rare it should be bottled and sold as a collectible.
“You’re everywhere,” I add, then immediately regret how breathless I sound.
His mouth twitches. “That’s kind of the job.”
“No, I mean—like—specifically where I am. Every time I turn around, there you are. Either catching my cupcakes or dragging me away from hay-related tragedies.”
“You say that like it’s a coincidence,” he says, voice dry as a Texas summer.
My brows lift. “Wait. You’re—are you assigned to me?”
He nods once.
“Oh my God.” I clap a hand over my mouth, half-horrified, half…thrilled? “Is this a bodyguard thing? Like officially?”
“Unofficially official,” he says. “Your brother asked for a shadow detail. You’ve had some close calls.”
“I thought Wyatt was just being Wyatt.”
“He is. He’s also not wrong.”
I blink. “Okay. Um. Wow. That’s… weirdly flattering? Like I’ve finally made it. I’m dangerous enough to need a personal bodyguard.”
Jack exhales like he’s not sure if I’m a nightmare or a fever dream. “You’re not dangerous,” he mutters.
“No,” I say, winking. “But apparently I attract danger. Like a goat to stickers.”
He chuckles—chuckles—and I feel like I’ve won the Valor Springs lottery.
“Are you going to, like… follow me around forever now?” I ask, doing my best not to twirl my ponytail like a high schooler with a crush.
“Until your brother says otherwise. Or the threats stop.”
“Do I at least get to pick your code name?” I tease.
“No.”
“I’m thinking something like… Agent Cupcake. Or Lone Star Daddy.”
He coughs like he’s trying not to choke on his own tongue. “Please stop,” he mutters.
“Sir Cupcake?” I try again. “Ooooh. Commander Frosting?”
“Stella.”
“Too much?”
“Way too much.”
I grin. “You like it.”
He doesn’t answer. Just levels me with that unreadable look again—the kind that makes my stomach do a barrel roll and my brain start calculating how many years are between us and whether or not age gaps are still trending in romance novels.
“Interview?” he says instead, jerking his head toward the lobby. “I’ll walk with you.”
I nod and we head out side by side. His stride is longer than mine, but he slows for me. Doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, I bet. I sneak a glance up at him and catch the edge of a smile. Just the edge.
“Why Lone Star?” I ask, because I suddenly want to know everything. “Why security?”
Jack shrugs, hands still tucked behind his back like he’s cataloging every threat in the building. “Needed a second act.”
“And your first was…?”
“Army. Special operations.”
“Explains the brooding,” I say, then slap a hand over my mouth. “Sorry. That was—”
“Accurate,” he replies, completely deadpan.
I crack up. “Okay, Agent Cupcake. You’re growing on me.”
He doesn’t look at me when he replies, but his voice is just a shade warmer than before. “You’ve been under my skin since the second you smashed a cupcake into my chest.”
“That was accidental.”
“Sure it was.”
“I panicked! There was a goat!”
We stop at the door just before the lobby, and I pause, breath caught.
His eyes are on me now. Just me.
“If anything happens,” he says, low and serious, “you text me first. Not Wyatt. Not the school. Me.”
I nod, heartbeat doing gymnastics. “Got it.”
“Good.” He lifts one hand like he might touch me, then drops it just as quickly.
Before I can say something flirty or faint from the tension, the reporter barrels through the doors, microphone in hand. “You must be Stella Hart! Mind if we chat real quick before the bake-off judging?”
I flash my best pageant smile. “Of course!”
As she guides me away, I glance over my shoulder.
Jack’s still standing there, arms crossed, watching me like I’m both a puzzle and a bomb.
I’m not sure if he wants to solve me…or detonate.
Either way, I think I’m doomed.
And maybe?
I don’t mind.