Gunnar (Dark Daddies of Delta Force #4)
Chapter 1
“And this year’s nominees are…”
The pause seems to drag on forever.
It stretches through the packed auditorium in one long, agonizing breath, soaking into every glittering corner of the Dolby Theatre while the audience waits for the final verdict.
The chandeliers overhead cast a soft golden glow across rows of diamonds, sequined gowns, and silk-lapeled tuxedos.
The collective anticipation around me is nearly palpable, and I can’t help but think that beyond the blinding stage lights, millions of people are also watching at home.
My fingers wrap around the arm of my chair so tightly I’m surprised I don’t break a nail. If they don’t announce this soon, I might actually combust in my seat.
Beside me, Colton Cross shifts toward me and flashes me a grin so polished it belongs on a billboard.
Which is probably why his gorgeous face is on half the billboards in Hollywood.
He’s the newest it guy, booking any project he wants and has women fawning over his rather impressive jawline.
He’s my date for the evening, because our agent thought being seen together would be good for publicity.
Unfortunately, no amount of exemplary genetics or expensive tailoring can disguise the fact that the man smells like he has never once considered the practical applications of soap or deodorant.
Beneath the five-figure, custom-tailored tuxedo is the unmistakable scent of stale sweat.
It should be a crime to look that good and smell like a dumpster in July.
He leans closer, resting his hand lightly over my bare arm. My eyes water from the rancid odor radiating from him as he confidently whispers, “You’ve got this.”
“Thanks.” I force myself to smile politely, even though his personality has all the flavor of a stale, unsalted cracker. Right about now, I would love an actual stale cracker to help calm my nausea.
“And when you win, we can go to my place to celebrate.” Fat chance.
Onstage, the presenter drags out the suspense with practiced ease, smiling at the audience as the camera sweeps over the other nominees and me one final time.
My face appears on the giant screen behind her, alongside the other actresses in my category.
Five women, all with extraordinary performances, who carried entire films on their backs in an industry that demands perfection.
My nerves are so jittery that I suddenly feel like I’m fifteen years old again, standing outside a tiny casting office in Los Angeles, with cheap makeup melting off my face in the summer heat.
I remember every producer who didn’t think I was good enough and every executive who suggested I “show a little more skin” while “talking a little less.” The meager roles I did manage were flanked by waitressing shifts, sometimes doubles, and rehearsing monologues in the bathroom mirror on breaks.
Even for the biopic role of May Britt for tonight’s awards—after a decade of successful films—I was deemed too pretty to be taken seriously.
“And the Oscar goes to…” The presenter opens the envelope, and my heart pounds so hard that my ears whoosh with each beat. When she pulls out the card, I’m certain time—and my heart—stops entirely as I wait for her lips to move. “Devyn Martin, for Mr. my hands are shaking despite my best efforts to still them.
After folding the note in my fist, I tighten my grip on the Oscar and whisper, “I need security.”
“That’s not my job, Miss Mart—”
“Now. I need them now.” The stagehand straightens immediately at something in my tone, the color draining from his face as he nods quickly and disappears down the hallway.
I remain standing there, alone beneath the harsh backstage lights, clutching my award in one hand and the bouquet of proteas in the other while applause echoes faintly from the stage beyond the curtains.
Only moments ago, this was the happiest night of my life.
Now, terror coils beneath my ribs so tightly I can barely breathe.
I stare at the Oscar, gleaming in my hand, a symbol of everything I have spent my life working and fighting for.
Suddenly, I’m wondering if it will make an effective weapon because I am overwhelmingly certain that somewhere nearby, hidden within the glittering chaos of the theater, my stalker is watching me.