Chapter 5
Holly
En Route to The Stargazer Hotel
I tell myself having a bodyguard is ridiculous.
It was just a note.
Okay—a few notes.
But still.
Is it really worth all this trouble?
I mean, Noel Kane?
The guy looks like he eats bad guys for breakfast and uses their bones to stir his coffee. He’s completely out of my league, out of my depth, and about five inches taller than any man I’ve ever dated. And I like them tall.
He’s built like sin and discipline had a baby. Broad shoulders, big hands, the kind of chest that makes you think about bad decisions in dark corners.
That broody scowl of his should come with a warning label because every time he shoots it at me, my pulse does a full sprint.
And those eyes—God help me.
They’re this warm whiskey color that turns molten when he’s teasing me and sharp when he’s assessing a threat.
The man has a face made for trouble and a mouth made for even worse ideas.
He’s got this thick, dark hair that always looks a little mussed, like he either just rolled out of bed or just rolled someone into one.
And don’t even get me started on his voice—low, deep, with that faint scrape that sounds like it was carved out of midnight.
Bonus? He’s got a sharp tongue and an infuriating sense of humor. I find myself waiting for the next outrageous thing he’s going to say just so I can bite back.
It’s pathetic. I know it.
He’s here doing a job—protecting me because Clementine pulled strings—but that doesn’t stop the lonely, traitorous part of me that keeps wondering what it would feel like to have someone like him look at me for me.
Is it him? My person? The one I keep pretending I don’t still believe in?
Unlikely.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop daydreaming. Because dayum, the man fills out those black tactical pants like they were stitched onto him by angels with sinful intentions.
And honestly, what’s a little verbal sparring if not foreplay?
“Where to next?” he asks, his deep voice sliding over my nerves like smoke.
I jolt, my body reacting before my brain catches up.
“What? Oh, uh—the venue. The Stargazer Hotel.”
He nods once, gaze cutting back to the road. I turn to look out the window, pretending I’m focused on the Manhattan skyline instead of the way my heart is pounding.
I can handle this. I have to handle this.
I run events for a living. Chaos is my baseline, panic is practically a personality trait, and I’ve wrangled more overdramatic clients and diva caterers than a sane person should.
A few creepy notes don’t change that.
Having Noel Kane drive me around like my personal shadow doesn’t change that either.
Except it does.
Because when he shifts in his seat—big, broad shoulders moving under that black t-shirt, muscles flexing like they have opinions—it does something to me. When he glances at me from the corner of his eye, it’s like he’s reading every thought I’ve ever had and cataloging them for later.
It’s confusing. And maddening. And a little intoxicating.
“Are you sure we need you here?” I ask, my voice lighter than I feel. “It’s just a venue walkthrough. One of the managers will meet me. They don’t usually let stalkers past the catering tables.”
He glances at me then, one eyebrow ticking up.
“Their people are used to cutting off trust-fund kids who’ve had too much champagne,” he says flatly. “They don’t handle stalkers. And they don’t protect event planners getting notes that escalated from ‘stay away’ to ‘you shouldn’t have said yes.’”
His tone is clipped, professional—no warmth, no room for argument.
But then he looks at me again, and something softens.
“You don’t get to decide the threat level, Holly,” he says quietly, voice like the rumble of an approaching storm. “I do.”
He says it like a rule. Like a promise.
My breath catches.
Then, just like that, the edges of his mouth curve, teasing back into existence, undoing me all over again.
“Besides,” he adds, low and rough, “I’m on the job now. And whether you like it or not, you’re not going anywhere without me, Tinsel.”
I blink. “That’s not an answer.”
His answer is that half-smile that makes my stomach drop and a growl that vibrates through the air between us.
“Trust me.”
Lord help me—I already do.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
We pull up in front of The Stargazer, a venue with a starry ceiling, mirrored columns, and more crystal chandeliers than sense.
It’s the kind of place clients dream of until they’re sobbing to their wedding planner about napkin folds.
Tonight, it looks more like a command center.
Black-clad Sigma techs are unloading boxes, walking the perimeter with earpieces in, scanning the room with practiced movements.
These must be his guys, and he confirms that with a sharp dip of his chin at the one in front.
Noel’s team moves like a well-oiled machine—no wasted motion, eyes everywhere.
My chest tightens. This is bigger than I thought. Bigger than I want to admit.
We step inside, and the temperature drops. Not from the air conditioning, but from the collective prickling of awareness.
Noel is already in his element, issuing quiet orders, coordinating with the venue’s head of security like he’s been doing this a hundred times before.
He speaks the language of threats—bag checks, sightlines, choke points, ingress and egress routes—terms that make the event planner in me want to fangirl and the human in me want to throw up.
“Ego, sweep the balcony again. Jack, I want the east fire exit covered. No unsecured vendors in the loading bay—lock it down until I clear it.”
He doesn’t shout. He just commands and they move.
The men respect him. They listen.
One of them catches my eye—Ego, I think he’s called—and gives me a curt nod, then turns back to his task.
Noel notices me watching, and for a moment there’s something almost gentle in his face before it flips back to business.
“See?” he says quietly when he steps back to my side. “This isn’t fluff. You’re a target because you’re visible. Because you do big things.”
“I do not want to be anyone’s target,” I snap, heat pricking my cheeks. “I want a flawless gala and a quiet life afterward.”
He hums, sarcastic and low.
“Good luck with the quiet life working high profile events in Manhattan.”
I simply scowl because I know he’s right.
We move through the room—no detail escapes him.
He crouches to check a floor register, inspects a fire exit latch, talks in low tones with the head of venue security about where cameras should be placed.
When he speaks to me, he says it like he believes I can and will follow instructions.
“Keep your phone on you. Silent except for me. You do not go to the loading bay. If you get a strange call, don’t answer. Send it to me. If anyone tries to crowd you—signal, and I clear them.”
My pulse hammers in my throat, but I nod. He’s calm. His competence is a warm blanket in the cold bite of fear.
Still, doubt flutters—am I panicking because of the note or because Noel’s proximity makes my chest ache in a way that’s embarrassingly distracting?
The Stargazer Hotel—Midtown Manhattan
My nerves are shot. I’m trying to act like I belong here, like this is just another event walkthrough, but my heart hasn’t stopped pounding since we stepped through the doors.
The Stargazer’s ballroom is breathtaking—polished marble floors, a domed ceiling painted to look like a midnight sky, strings of lights cascading down like falling stars—but all I can think about is how small I feel standing in it next to Noel Kane.
He moves through the space like he owns it, calm, steady, precise. While I’m fidgeting with the hem of my blouse and trying not to hyperventilate, he’s scanning exits, checking corners, talking quietly into a comms mic in his ear. Every inch of him radiates control.
And somehow, that only makes my insides twist harder.
Because I can’t decide if I want to strangle him for being so bossy—or melt a little every time his low, sure voice brushes over me when he says, “Stay close.”
I try to focus on the job. On the gala. On anything other than how he smells—clean leather, cedar, and a little danger.
Then one of the hotel managers—a woman with perfect posture and a bright smile—hurries up to me.
“Hi! I’m Annabeth, so nice to meet you, Holly. I came in to do a last-minute check before you arrived half an hour ago. We’ve got a corporate event tonight, but we’ll have your team back in tomorrow morning for setup.”
She gestures toward the stage.
“Anyway, that was sitting there for you—”
Her hand points to a small, awkwardly wrapped box on a chair.
The kind of innocent detail you’d never notice—except for the tag with my name written on it.
My name.
In the same looping, jagged handwriting I’ve seen before.
I freeze.
My brain short-circuits.
It’s the same marker, the same scratchy style as the notes.
“No,” I whisper, throat tightening.
“No,” Noel agrees, voice low and dangerous.
He’s moving before I can even take a step. Long strides, controlled, efficient.
The man doesn’t hesitate. He’s at the stage in seconds, gloved hands already lifting the package while he fires questions at Annabeth like bullets.
“Who left this? Did anyone see a delivery person? You got surveillance on the loading dock? I want timestamps.”
She blinks, startled, fumbling for words.
“I—I don’t know. It was just, um, there.”
She shrugs.
My stomach lurches.
Fear rises like acid, hot and sharp.
Noel crouches, scanning the package with a handheld device that chirps once and quiets—no explosives, thank God—but he studies every detail.
The tape, the paper, the string, the smell.
The muscles in his forearms flex as he works, and somehow, even in my terror, I notice.
Because of course I do. I’m being stalked by some creep, but apparently that hasn’t affected my libido any.
Noel opens the box carefully, peeling back the paper like he’s opening a wound.
I can only see inside when he tilts it. And when I do? I cringe.
Resting on white tissue paper, is a single dead rose. Blackened. Brittle. The petals curl inward like they’re trying to hide.
And beside it—another note.
He unfolds it slowly, eyes narrowing.
The words are messier this time, angrier.
You’re on my naughty list, Holly. I’m gonna have to punish you if you don’t learn to behave.
My breath catches. The room tilts.
I hear murmurs around me, people shifting, the uneasy buzz of staff trying to look busy but clearly terrified.
My body goes cold.
It’s one thing to get a creepy note—it’s another to have it delivered to a venue where I conduct business.
Noel’s jaw tightens, muscles ticking in his temple as he stares down at the paper.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. When he straightens, the entire room sharpens around him like a drawn blade.
“Lock the doors,” he says to one of his men. “Full sweep. No one in or out until I clear it.”
His tone is pure command—cool, lethal, steady—and his team moves instantly. It’s like watching a storm form in slow motion.
He looks back at me, and something in his eyes changes. The edge softens.
Just barely.
“Okay,” he says quietly, his voice now for me alone. “This is escalation. We’re not downplaying it anymore.”
Fear and embarrassment fight for space in my chest.
“Escalation,” I repeat weakly. “You make it sound like a military op.”
“It might as well be,” he growls, crumpling the note in his gloved fist. “And you’re the target. So yeah, we treat it like one.”
I can’t breathe. My legs feel wooden.
He’s already moving toward me, all that dangerous calm wrapped in controlled power, and when he reaches me, the tension in his voice cuts right through the panic in mine.
“Holly.”
My name sounds different from him now. Not a tease. Not a joke.
A promise.
“Come with me,” he says, voice firm but gentle, hand finding the small of my back as he steers me away from the open room. “We’re moving to Studio B.”
That touch—warm, grounding—makes something in me unravel. It shouldn’t.
He’s my bodyguard, not my anchor.
But the heat of his palm seeps through the thin fabric of my blouse, and suddenly my heartbeat has more to do with him than the threat.
As we pass through the service hallway, the hum of hotel chatter fades behind us. It’s just the two of us now, his presence swallowing up the space.
I should be terrified. I am terrified. But every time he says my name, every time he looks at me like he’s ready to take on the world, that fear twists into something else—something hot and restless.
I’m not a virgin. I don’t swoon.
But with him, my body doesn’t seem to care what my brain is saying.
And it’s not just attraction anymore.
It’s the way he moves around me, protective but never possessive. The way he looks at me like I’m important. Like I matter.
And maybe it’s not because I’m a job. Maybe it’s because I’m me.
When he glances down, the barest ghost of heat in his eyes, it hits me—I don’t want to pretend anymore.
I don’t want to act uninterested. I don’t want to waste time on fear when life has clearly decided to get messy.
Not when every instinct I have is screaming that Noel Kane is both the danger and the safest place I’ve ever stood.
And that realization?
That’s the scariest thing of all.