Bad or Good at the Billionaire's Cabin

Chapter One

Hailey

Silver bells, city sidewalks, and a stalker who thinks I don’t notice him. He’s following me again, like he has been for the

past three months, and he’s still convinced I’m oblivious.

I spot him half a block behind me on Fifth Avenue, his silver-blond head visible above the evening crowd even with his collar

turned up against the December wind. He’s trying to blend in with the after-work rush, but that rigid spine gives him away

every time. Arrow-straight, scanning everything, moving like a man on a mission instead of someone heading home after a long

day. Even from here, I can see the way his suit jacket stretches across shoulders broad enough to block out the Christmas

lights behind him. Knox Bishop is built like a weapon someone forgot to put away. Tension held in every muscle, intensity

that could snap at any moment. One look at him and you feel hunted.

I’ve been tailed by professionals who could ghost a target for weeks without detection. Knox Bishop, former Marine turned

head of security for billionaire Cole Asher, is good at what he does. Really good.

And Jesus, the man is sexy. Shadow Daddy sexy.

But I spent five years looking over my shoulder, and you don’t survive that long without learning to spot a tail.

I slow my pace as I turn into Bryant Park, letting the winter magic wash over me. The park is transformed this time of year,

and tonight it’s gorgeous. Fairy lights strung overhead cast everything in soft gold, turning the vendor stalls into a scene from a snow globe.

The massive Christmas tree dominates the center of the park, its lights twinkling against the darkening sky.

Around me, the crowd is thick with tourists and locals alike, all bundled in wool coats and scarves, breath misting in cold air that smells like roasted chestnuts and cinnamon.

My Doc Martens crunch through the slush as I weave between stalls. The vendor booths are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, selling

everything from handblown glass ornaments to artisanal hot chocolate topped with homemade marshmallows. Holiday music drifts

from speakers hidden in the trees, something classic and sentimental that has everyone grinning like they’re extras in a rom-com.

I should probably be more freaked out about the stalking situation. Normal people would be. But Knox doesn’t feel threatening.

He feels . . . intense. Electric. Like standing too close to a live wire.

I stop at a stall displaying glass baubles, each one catching the light differently. The vendor launches into his sales pitch

but I’m not listening. I’m tracking Knox’s position by instinct more than anything else. That prickle at the back of my neck

that tells me I’m being watched. The way the crowd seems to part in my peripheral vision. He’s good, but I’m better at this

game than he realizes.

I pick up a crimson ornament, turn it over in my hands, watch the light refract through the glass. Set it down and move to

the next booth.

This vendor sells candy canes in flavors that should probably be illegal. Pickle. Wasabi. Bacon. Egg . . . yes, egg! I select

a traditional peppermint and unwrap it slowly, taking my time with the cellophane. The night air is biting enough that my

fingers ache, but I don’t rush.

I let my tongue trace the curve of the candy cane before sliding it between my lips. Slow. Deliberate. Is he watching right

now? Is he imagining what else my mouth could do? What my tongue could trace? Warmth spreads through me despite the December

cold.

I pull the candy from my lips with an audible pop and let it rest against my bottom lip for a moment before taking it back into my mouth.

Your move, Knox Bishop.

I don’t look in his direction. That would break the spell.

A group of tourists jostles past me, speaking rapid French and laughing at something on someone’s phone. The Rink is packed

with skaters doing wobbly circles under the lights, their laughter mixing with the scrape of blades on ice.

I drift toward the book stall, running my fingers along paperback spines. Behind me, Knox maintains his distance. Three stalls

back, pretending to examine a display of leather gloves. When he reaches for a pair, his sleeve rides up to reveal the edge

of dark ink wrapping around his wrist. Tattoos he keeps hidden under those perfectly tailored suits. I’ve caught glimpses

before. Enough to know there’s more underneath. Enough to wonder what stories they tell and where else they might go. He thinks

he’s being subtle. It’s adorable.

We’ve been doing this dance for months now. He watches, I pretend not to see him, we both act like this is totally normal

behavior. But last month, the dynamic shifted. He started showing up at Sloane’s studio more often, the jewelry studio where

I work as her assistant. Security checks, he’d call them. But the way his eyes found me every time told a different story.

Lingering longer. Finding excuses to talk to me. Last week, he’d asked me about the book I was reading, and even started asking

me about the jewelry I was working on.

Tonight isn’t the first time I’ve taken the scenic route home. I do this at least once a week now—walk through Bryant Park,

past the holiday windows, down streets lit up with Christmas decorations. It’s like the world’s most romantic date, except

we never acknowledge we’re on one.

Hallmark Meets Stalker: A Love Story.

It’s fucked up and addictive, and I can’t get enough of it.

The temperature has dropped in the last hour, that particular brand of cold that happens only in New York in December.

The bitter air cuts through my coat and makes my teeth ache.

Around me, people are bundled in layers, scarves wrapped to their noses, hands shoved deep in pockets.

Steam rises from grates in the sidewalk, and the windows of surrounding buildings glow warm against the dark sky.

Behind me, Knox’s footsteps match my pace. We’re in sync now, this weird choreography we’ve developed over months of surveillance

and countersurveillance. I know exactly where he is without looking. Third position, right side, maintaining civilian spacing

but ready to close the distance if needed.

Does he know I’ve clocked him? Sometimes I wonder. He’s too smart not to pick up on the fact that I never startle, never look

nervous, never do any of the things someone being stalked should do. Maybe he thinks I’m oblivious. Or maybe he thinks I’m

playing along.

If only he knew how right that second guess is.

I head east toward the library with its stone lions wearing Christmas wreaths, past the holiday window displays that draw

crowds three-deep on the sidewalk. Macy’s has outdone themselves this year with animated scenes of winter landscapes and dancing

snowflakes. The light from the windows spills onto the sidewalk, turning the slush into something that almost looks magical.

New York in December is chaos wrapped in tinsel and fairy lights. I love it.

The crowds thin as I make my way toward the subway at Grand Central. I descend into the station, hit immediately by the change

in temperature. It’s warmer down here, that particular subway warmth that comes from too many bodies and the heat of trains

rushing through tunnels. A busker plays saxophone near the entrance, the music echoing off the tile walls.

I lose sight of Knox in the crowd but I know he’s there. Probably near the stairs, keeping the exit in view. Watching. Protecting.

Always protecting.

The F train pulls in with a screech of brakes and a rush of stale air.

I squeeze on with everyone else, grabbing a pole near the door.

Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Knox on the platform, watching my car disappear into the tunnel.

Those battle-hardened eyes tracking me until the darkness swallows the train whole.

He won’t get on the train. Too confined, too easy for me to spot him.

But he’ll be there when I get off. He always is.

Predictable. But also sweet in a deeply disturbed way.

I pull out my phone and scroll through messages. There’s one from Sloane.

SOS. Need you early tomorrow. Cole set up a client meeting and these pieces are NOT cooperating. They’re staging a rebellion.

I grin and type back.

How early are we talking?

Like before I’ve had coffee early. Which means 8am. I know. I’m a monster.

I’ll bring the coffee.

Fair warning: I might cry on you. These earrings are personally attacking me.

Your earrings can’t hurt you. They’re earrings.

YOU DON’T KNOW THAT.

I laugh and pocket my phone.

Working for Sloane and Cole has been good for me. Legitimate work, legitimate income. A life I’m actually proud of.

The train takes me into Brooklyn and I emerge at Bergen Street into the cold night air. Cobble Hill is quieter, residential streets lined with brownstones decorated for Christmas.

A guy outside a bar on Smith Street whistles as I pass. I flip him off without breaking stride.

“Yo, fuck you too!” he yells after me, but his friends are already pulling him back inside.

New York. Gotta love it.

I wonder if Knox saw that. If he’s filing away the guy’s face, running threat assessments in his head.

Obsessive stalking has its perks.

I spot the rose before I even reach my building. A single red bloom, placed carefully on my doorstep like an offering. The

petals are perfect despite the cold, closed tight against the winter air.

My heart beats faster. No note. Never a note. Just a perfect red rose that Knox leaves like a breadcrumb marking his obsession.

A single rose: It means something different than a bouquet. Anyone can throw money at a dozen long-stems and call it romance.

That’s easy. Expected. But a single rose? That’s intentional. That’s someone saying you’re the only thing I’m thinking about. One flower, one focus, one obsession. It’s not trying to impress with quantity. It’s confident enough to stand alone.

I’ve never told anyone that. Never mentioned it to friends, never written it down. But Knox figured it out anyway.

That’s either incredibly romantic or deeply unsettling. Possibly both.

I haven’t figured out how he beats me here. He can’t get here faster, I’d swear to it. But the rose is always waiting. Maybe he leaves it before the stalking. Maybe he’s that good. Either way, it’s impressive.

When did this start being romantic instead of concerning? When did I start looking forward to finding each rose?

I pick it up and unlock my door, carrying it inside like a trophy.

I add the rose to my collection near the kitchen window. Four stems now, hanging upside down, drying into something permanent. Outside the window, Brooklyn stretches out in a patchwork of lit windows and dark rooftops, the Manhattan skyline glittering in the distance.

I walk to the window and look down at the street. There, on the corner across from my building, Knox stands under a streetlight.

He’s not even trying to hide now. His hands are shoved in his coat pockets, his breath misting in the cold air. Standing there.

Watching my window like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Should I wave? Let him know I see him? No. Not yet.

The game isn’t over yet.

But our silent date has come to an end, so I close the curtains but leave them slightly parted. Not quite an invitation, but

not a rejection either.

I see you, Knox Bishop. I see you.