Chapter 19
Noel
Professional jealousy isn’t something I’d considered when trying to figure out the “why” behind all this.
But watching Holly politely—and tastefully—tear her boss a new asshole?
Yeah. I have to admit, it’s looking like a damn good motive.
Carly’s smile has been glued on so tight for the last half hour I’m surprised it hasn’t cracked off and hit the floor.
Ambrose can’t stop stealing glances at my girl. And it’s pissing me off.
So, yeah, I growl a little from where I’m standing in the corner of the room, making him jump and drop his coffee mug—which really puts me in the holiday mood if I do say so myself.
I mean, it’s practically a gift, watching that pencil dick shit himself.
Serves him right, the prick. He has no business checking out Tinsel like that.
And Darlene? First, she tries to catch my attention, flipping her hair and batting her overly done up eyes at me. But I don’t even glance. Why would I?
After all the bullshit, once Holly starts showing them her updated notes—not on the whiteboard they stole from her locked office—they both look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
And Holly?
She’s handling it all like a queen.
Smart. Steady. Sharp as hell.
And of course, gorgeous as fuck.
She’s got a notebook in one hand and her new phone—courtesy of Sigma International Security—in the other as she calmly and precisely corrects every single half-assed assumption these people make about her work.
She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t get flustered. Doesn’t break.
But I see the tension in her shoulders. The micro-tremble in her fingers.
The effort it takes to keep her chin high while Carly tiptoes around phrases like you’ve been under a lot of stress, and I just didn’t want the event to fall apart.
What she means is, I saw a shot to take credit for something that wasn’t mine, and I took it.
It takes about an hour to get these clowns up to speed—an hour Holly shouldn't have had to spend justifying the fact that she built this event from the ground up.
Every table, every vendor, every contingency plan. All hers.
And she does it with class.
But if I didn’t have a badge and a badge number—all Sigma employees do, essential for identification, access control, security, and for signifying authority—I’d happily commit a felony in defense of her name right now.
She’s smart as a fucking whip, and she’s right—no one knows this gala like she does.
“Are you sure the florist can manage that one-time install for the mirrored sculpture before the cocktail hour?” Ambrose asks, condescending like she didn’t already handle it three vendors ago.
Soft hands. No scars. He reeks of the kind of guy who uses words like synergy and thinks sending a DoorDash gift card counts as team building.
“Yes,” Holly says, flat.
One word. That’s all she gives him.
I cough to hide my laugh.
She doesn’t look at me, but I see the corner of her mouth twitch. She knows. She senses it.
And God, I want to kiss her again. Bend her over that goddamn boardroom table and remind her she doesn’t owe these assholes an ounce of her genius.
But I don’t.
Not here. Not yet.
I’m just the silent shadow at her back, the big scary guy in black who everyone’s too afraid to ask about.
Let them wonder.
Let them think she’s protected by the devil himself.
They’d be right.
Because whatever this thing is between us—whatever strange, fierce, inconvenient fire she’s lit inside me—I know one thing for sure.
She’s mine now.
And I’ll throw down with anyone who tries before I let them dim her light.
We leave Big City Events just as the city starts slipping into that eerie winter hush—gray skies pressing down like a warning, snow dusting the sidewalks, traffic slower, people bundled up and moving fast.
Holly’s quiet beside me.
Not sulking, not angry. Just contained.
Like she’s got her emotions folded into neat, tidy corners so she doesn’t fall apart.
I don’t say anything. Just open the door for her, help her in.
She leans into my touch for half a second before pulling away like she didn’t mean to.
We’re halfway to the bakery when she finally speaks.
“They were going to take over, take credit for everything.”
I glance over.
Her eyes are on the road, but her fists are clenched in her lap.
“I know.”
“If I hadn’t walked in—”
“They would’ve steamrolled you and then blamed you if anything went wrong,” I finish. “Typical power move.”
Her shoulders lift on a breath. “Yeah.”
“You handled it.”
She gives me a look.
“You didn’t make it easy with all that growling.”
Her lips twitch.
“You should be commending me. It was hard as hell trying not to punch anyone. But no promises next time.”
That almost gets a smile.
We pull up to Let Them Eat Cake—a warm, buttery-lit boutique bakery on the corner of 54th and Park, sandwiched between a vintage bookshop and an upscale pet spa.
The window display is full of miniature Yule logs, marzipan ornaments, and a cake shaped like a snow globe.
Inside smells like vanilla, citrus zest, and melted sugar.
So basically, it’s heaven.
Holly pauses just inside the door, breathing it in.
“It’ll be ten minutes.”
“Fifteen,” I say, holding the door open. “You need time to taste properly.”
She rolls her eyes, but a little color comes back to her cheeks.
“Since when are you an expert on dessert?”
“Since I saw you lick frosting off your lip last time you ate something sweet.”
Her breath hitches. I give her a wink.
She swats me, blushing.
“Roxie!” she calls as we head toward the back counter.
A curvy, petite woman in a black apron and a messy topknot pops her head around the display case.
“There she is! And—whoa. Hello, handsome.”
I lift a brow.
“This is Noel,” Holly says quickly. “He’s my, uh…”
“Tall, dark, and security detail delicious. Got it.” Roxie grins. “I’m Roxie, and I’m about to blow your taste buds away.”
She gestures us toward a small marble-topped table near the window.
Three stunning plated desserts are already waiting—each prettier than the last.
Gold flakes. Candied citrus. Spun sugar shaped like snowflakes.
“Three finalists for the centerpiece,” Roxie says, setting down tiny forks. “Pick one. Or don’t. I’ll cry. But quietly.”
Holly laughs, the sound like sleigh bells in my chest. She slides into the chair, professional again, but there’s a sparkle in her eye that wasn’t there twenty minutes ago.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching her taste.
She’s in her element now. Focused. Confident. Asking smart questions. Making notes.
Suggesting a minor switch to the sauce-to-sponge ratio with this calm authority that has Roxie nodding furiously and taking her own notes.
Next, it’s cookie time.
And holy fuck, the assortment is amazing.
Roxie wheels out a silver tray like she’s unveiling the crown jewels.
There must be two dozen varieties, each more intricate than the last—powdered, drizzled, dipped, and filled.
“This is our international holiday cookie sampler,” she announces with pride. “Inspired by traditions from around the world.”
Holly gasps, then claps her hands like a little kid.
“Oh my god, Roxie, you outdid yourself.”
I’m trying to stay professional, really, but then she beams at the tray like Christmas just came early and my heart does something stupid in my chest.
“These are Italian anistette cookies,” Roxie says, pointing to the pale, glazed rounds with rainbow sprinkles. “Classic nonna-style. They have that licorice kick—old school.”
I bite into one.
It melts in my mouth, soft and sweet with a punch of anise that reminds me of holidays spent with my own grandma, may she rest in peace.
“Holy shit,” I mutter. “These are my favorite so far.”
“I knew you had good taste,” Holly teases, brushing her fingers along mine as she reaches for one too.
I nearly groan.
Roxie moves on.
“These beauties are German zimtsterne—cinnamon star cookies. Gluten free, packed with almond and spice, topped with meringue.”
I watch Holly’s eyes flutter closed as she takes a bite.
“Ridiculously good,” she murmurs.
“Up next, Polish kolaczki,” Roxie continues, tapping the folded pastries filled with raspberry jam. “Delicate, flaky, fruity. Your gala guests will fight over these.”
I don’t even taste them. I just watch her.
The way her lips curve. The way her lashes fan out when she concentrates.
The way she scribbles tasting notes in her planner like this is the most important thing in the world.
And maybe it is. To her.
She’s not just working. She’s creating a moment for people. Magic. Memory.
“This one is Norwegian krumkake—rolled and filled with whipped cream,” Roxie adds, passing the crispy cones. “And over here, Mexican polvorones—aka Mexican wedding cookies. Nutty, crumbly, powdered sugar heaven.”
Holly hums. “These could work as a take-home treat. Something guests can bag on the way out.”
“Brilliant,” Roxie says, jotting it down.
I’m leaning back, arms folded, trying to keep it together. Because me?
I’m completely fucking wrecked.
She doesn’t even know it.
But I’m done for.
And it’s not just her curves or her laugh or the way she eats a cookie like it might bite her back if she’s not careful.
It’s the fact that she cares so much. That she brings beauty and joy into everything she touches.
That she has this whole world of color and light inside her—and she still chooses to share it even after some piece of shit threatened her.
She’s fearless.
She’s brilliant.
She’s mine.
And I’ll burn down the city before I let anyone hurt her.