Chapter 2
Noel
Lincoln Tunnel, En Route to Weehawken
Hell of a first impression.
Not even ten minutes in and she’s already swung at me, yelled for help, and called me ridiculous—all while looking like every man’s favorite Christmas wish wrapped in a wool coat and panic.
Holly Winters.
Connor’s file hadn’t done her justice.
It had said professional, event planner, strong work ethic, lives alone.
It hadn’t said anything about the way she’d trembled but refused to back down, or how her chin had tilted just so when she was scared out of her mind, daring the world not to break her.
It sure as hell hadn’t mentioned that smile, or how the sound of her voice crawls under my skin like static.
And that picture of her? It didn’t do her justice.
It sure as fuck hadn’t prepared me for the jolt I felt zip through my central nervous system when I got a peek at those flashing silver eyes of hers.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, keeping a two-car distance behind her little blue hatchback as we merge into the stream of traffic heading toward the Lincoln Tunnel.
Her taillights flicker in the wet night, steady and small against the blur of city neon.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the curve of her mouth or the way she’d blushed when I called her Tinsel.
Stupid nickname, yeah—but something about her had made me want to ease the fear out of her eyes.
That’s not part of the job.
Sigma rules are clear.
No personal involvement with clients.
Keep it clean. Keep it distant.
Connor didn’t have to remind me—hell, he probably assumed I didn’t even know how to flirt anymore.
But there’s something about her.
I can feel it.
That pull in my chest—the one I’ve trained myself to ignore for years—tugs every time she glances at her mirrors, checking to make sure I’m still there.
She doesn’t know it, but I can read fear in every movement of her car.
The too-fast signal changes. The hesitation before turns. The little corrections she makes when her mind’s somewhere else.
Yeah, she’s rattled. Badly.
And whoever’s behind those notes? They’ve crossed a line.
I roll my shoulders, forcing the tension down. My instincts have kept me alive this long, and they’re screaming now—whoever’s stalking her isn’t just playing games.
They’ve been watching. Tracking. Planning.
I’ll find them.
And when I do, they’re done.
The traffic clears as we emerge from the tunnel into Jersey, headlights bouncing off slick asphalt.
The skyline fades behind us, replaced by narrow streets lined with brownstones and corner delis still glowing from the evening rush.
She signals right, pulling into a small lot beside a three-story brick building that’s seen better days.
Weehawken. Modest, tidy.
A few wreaths hang lopsided on doors. Hers is the last apartment on the second floor, if I remember the file right.
I park a few spaces back, engine idling. Through her rearview mirror, I catch the flash of her face—the quick exhale of relief, shoulders slumping like the air’s finally safe to breathe.
Yeah, that does something to me too.
Because I want to keep her feeling like that. Safe.
The thought hits me harder than it should, sharp and unwelcome.
I don’t do feelings. I do facts. Threat assessments. Tactical defense.
But looking at her now, fumbling with her keys, cheeks pink from the cold, I get this tight, stupid ache in my chest.
Not just protectiveness. Not just duty.
Something worse.
Something I can’t afford.
I kill the engine and sit there a moment longer, the sound of the city humming faintly around me.
Yeah, I’ll sweep her apartment. Check her locks. Get her new security installed before morning.
And then I’ll do the smart thing.
Keep my distance.
Because if I let myself get any closer to Holly Winters, I won’t just be breaking protocol.
I’ll be breaking myself. And that’s not something I can afford to do.
By the time I blink, she’s already hustling up the front steps. The building’s old but clean—three floors, small lobby, old radiator hissing like it’s tired of trying.
I kill the engine and step out, boots crunching on gravel, eyes automatically scanning.
Nothing obvious. Just a quiet Jersey neighborhood half-drowned in holiday lights.
She glances back as I reach the door. The look she gives me is halfway between suspicion and relief.
“You followed me.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what bodyguards do.”
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile and losing. “You’re not officially my bodyguard. I mean, I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Already told you, the Callahans hired me. But give it another ten minutes, I’ll grow on you.”
She rolls her eyes and snorts. And it’s cuter than I expected.
Like stupid fucking cute.
Inside, the stairwell smells faintly of coffee and pine cleaner. She leads the way, heels clicking on the worn steps, and I have to keep my focus on the surroundings instead of the way her hips move under that dark coat.
My job, I remind myself. Not my fantasy.
Her apartment door’s painted robin’s-egg blue, brass numbers slightly crooked. She unlocks it and pushes inside, flipping the switch.
Warm light spills over a space that’s pure her.
Mismatched mugs stacked beside a coffeemaker, a tiny tree twinkling in the corner, fabric swatches and color palettes covering the kitchen island. Cinnamon candles. Laughter and life in every inch.
Not the kind of place that should feel threatened.
She drops her keys into a bowl. “I know it’s small. But it’s mine.”
“Home should be small,” I murmur, already moving through the space. “Easier to defend.”
She blinks at that, watching as I check locks, windows, the fire escape. I keep my tone professional, but the closeness makes the air thicken.
When I test the back window latch, she’s right behind me, her reflection shimmering in the glass beside mine.
“Do you do that with every client?” she asks softly.
“Only the ones with stalkers.”
She shivers, just a little. I hate that it’s because of fear.
I turn, slow and deliberate, giving her space but not stepping away.
“I already ordered the new locks and alarm system, and I’ll have it all installed tomorrow. In the meantime, keep the windows latched, deadbolt on. Don’t open the door to anyone unless you hear my voice.”
Her throat works. “You think they’ll come here?”
“I think whoever’s been following you wants you scared.” I let my gaze meet hers. “You’re doing a good job pretending you’re not.”
Color blooms in her cheeks. “I’m event-planner-level good at pretending.”
That earns her a faint smile from me—one I don’t mean to give.
“Noted.”
For a moment, neither of us moves.
“So, is that it? You just go now?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll be outside. Guarding.”
The silence stretches, filled with the hum of the radiator and the faint jingling of the little tree.
Then she says quietly, “Oh. Um, thank you, Noel. For being here.”
I nod once. “It’s my job.”
But the words sound thin even to me.
Because as she stands there—hair falling loose from its clip, eyes wide and shining—I know this is already more than a job.
I clear my throat, forcing distance back into my voice.
“Get some rest, Tinsel. I’ll be parked out front.”
She arches a brow.
“You’re really sticking with that nickname?”
“’Fraid so.”
A soft laugh escapes her, the sound light and warm and dangerous as hell.
“Goodnight, Mr. Kane.”
“Noel.”
“Okay then. Goodnight, Noel.”
I nod again, trying not to feel anything about how she said my name. Soft. Breathy. Like it was too sacred to say above a whisper.
I head for the door before I do something stupid—like reach out and touch her just to see if she’s real.
Once outside, I take a steadying breath, the night air cold enough to sting. The engine of the SUV hums quietly as I slide behind the wheel and glance back up at the second-floor window.
Her light’s still on. She moves across the room, draws the curtain, disappears from view.
Yeah. This definitely feels like more than a job.
And that’s a big fucking problem.