Chapter 3 Indigo #2
“So we’re paddling out, right? Nash and Banks immediately start racing each other like it’s the goddamn Olympics.
They’re yelling trash talk, splashing water everywhere.
Sin decides this is the perfect moment to test his ‘silent but deadly’ fart technique—he’s convinced he can weaponize it.
I’m trying not to capsize while simultaneously begging him to stop.
Meanwhile, little Colt is sitting in the front of the counselor’s canoe, wearing this bright orange life jacket three sizes too big, flapping his arms like he’s a baby bird.
The counselor’s all, ‘That’s great, buddy, just keep your hands inside the boat. ’”
I can picture it already—seven Hawthorne boys turning a peaceful lake into a war zone.
“Then Jace, in his best David Attenborough voice, starts narrating: ‘Here we observe the rare North American brothers in their natural habitat, competing for dominance through superior paddling and flatulence.’ Banks, who’s been quiet this whole time, suddenly stands up in the canoe—full stand-up, like he’s posing for a photo—and yells, ‘I FOUND A FROG!’ Except he’s holding it by one leg, and the frog is pissed.
It leaps straight at Jace in their boat.
He screams like he’s being murdered. Their canoe tips. Splash. Both of them in the water.”
I’m giggling now. “Oh my God.”
“But it gets better,” Mack says, grin widening.
“The splash startles Nash and Crewe. They both turn at the same time. Their canoe tips. Crewe goes flying backward into the lake. Nash manages to stay in, but now he’s standing up screaming, ‘CREWE, YOU IDIOT!’ Sin, still in our canoe, sees his chance.
He leans over, grabs the rope from the front of Nash’s boat, and starts towing it backward like he’s reeling in a marlin.
We tip and go flying. Nash is losing his mind.
I’m laughing so hard I can barely swim. And then—then—Colt decides this is his moment to shine. ”
Mack leans forward, eyes sparkling with pure mischief.
“He stands up in the counselor’s canoe—orange life jacket flapping like wings—spreads his arms wide, and yells at the top of his lungs, ‘I CAN FLY!’ Before anyone can stop him, he jumps.
Full Superman pose. Tiny five-year-old cannonball straight into the lake.
The counselor panics, lunges after him, and tips their canoe too.
Now we’ve got four canoes, seven boys, one counselor, and one very confused frog all in the water. ”
I’m wheezing. Tears are streaming down my face. “What happened to the retreat?”
“Canceled. Immediately. They hauled us all back to shore dripping wet and covered in pond scum. Mom had to come pick us up early. She shows up in her minivan, takes one look at us—Nash with a bloody nose from the collision, Crewe missing one shoe, Me soaking wet, Sin still giggling like a maniac, Jace chewing on a cattail he found, Banks solemnly explaining to the counselors that ‘the dominant male was defeated by inferior buoyancy,’ Colt wrapped in a towel looking proud as hell—and she just… sighs. Deep, soul-weary sigh. Then she says, ‘I should’ve left you animals in the woods.’”
Mack laughs, low and warm, shaking his head. “She still brings it up every Thanksgiving. Calls it ‘The Day the Lake Fought Back.’”
I wipe my eyes, still giggling. “Your poor, poor mother. Seven sons. I’m surprised she didn’t ship you all to military school.”
He parks the SUV in the lot. He turns the ignition off and faces me.
“She threatened to. Multiple times.” He reaches over, brushes a stray tear off my cheek with his thumb.
The touch is casual, but it sends a shiver straight through me.
“But she never did. Said we were too much trouble for anyone else to handle.”
I look at him—really look. The easy smile, the way his eyes crinkle when he talks about his brothers, the faint scar above his eyebrow that I’m dying to ask about but haven’t yet. He’s chaos wrapped in charm, just like the rest of them, probably.
And yet here he is telling me stories like we’ve got all the time in the world.
“Remind me never to go canoeing with any of you,” I say, voice still thick with laughter.
He leans in closer, voice dropping to that low rumble again. “Too late, sweetheart. You’re already in the boat.”
My heart does a stupid little flip.
I don’t push him away.
We head into the venue, a glittering hall decked in lace and lights. Security's amped; Mack scans every corner as we enter. Rehearsal's a blur—strutting in lingerie samples, poses, lights. But my mind's on the threat. Every shadow feels like eyes. I falter once, heel catching, but catch myself.
While I’m backstage changing, I overhear whispers: "Heard about the flower bomb? Indigo's got a stalker."
My stomach drops. Word's out. This will definitely hurt my brand. I slump my shoulders, letting the fear get to me. Why can’t they leave me alone?
I slip out of the rehearsal runway after the final walk-through, still buzzing from the lights and the click of heels on the polished stage.
The actual Showcase is soon, but today was all about timing, spacing, and making sure the new girls don’t trip over their own lingerie.
I’m sweaty, my robe half-open over the practice set, hair pinned up in a messy knot.
All I want is five minutes alone to breathe, touch up my lipstick, and maybe steal a sip of the sparkling water I left in my dressing room.
The hallway is quieter now—most of the models have scattered to their own spaces or back to the hotel—and I push open the door to dressing room three.
There, dead center on the vanity under the circle of bright bulbs, sits a tiny box.
Matte black wrapping. Silver ribbon in a flawless bow. No tag. No card. Just the box, small and perfect and completely wrong.
My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on the stairs.
I freeze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob.
I locked this room before I left for the runway run—double-checked the latch because the break-in back home is still fresh enough to make me paranoid.
Nothing was out of place when I stepped out forty minutes ago. This wasn’t here.
My skin prickles. The air feels wrong, too still, like someone just left the room and took the warmth with them.
I don’t go in. I don’t even breathe too loud. Instead I back up one step into the hallway, and glance around.
Mack’s there. He raises a brow. “You okay?”
“There’s a box,” I say, keeping my voice low even though the hall is empty. “In my dressing room. On the vanity. Wrapped like a gift. I didn’t put it there.”
The shift in him is instant. No more easy drawl. “Don’t touch it.” He reaches me fast, hand light on my arm as he eases me a step farther back from the doorway. His eyes flick past me to the vanity inside, clocking the box in one sweep. “Yeah. That’s not from wardrobe.”
He taps his earpiece. “Rhodes. Dressing room three, rehearsal wing. Suspicious item on the vanity—gift-wrapped black box. Model’s clear in the hallway. Need venue security and Cupid City PD, non-emergency but expedite. Possible connection to prior incident.”
He listens for a second, then looks back at me. “They’re on their way. Two minutes tops. You okay?”
I wrap my arms around myself under the robe. “Freaked out. But yeah.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint pine of his cologne over the lingering hairspray in the air. “Good. You did exactly right—didn’t touch it and stayed out here. That’s the play.”
We wait in the hallway. The distant thump of the soundcheck bass vibrates through the walls, a reminder that the rest of the production is still humming along like nothing’s wrong.
Mack stands slightly in front of me, body angled so he can see both the dressing room door and the corridor in either direction.
He doesn’t crowd me, but he’s close enough that I feel the steady heat of him, like a shield.
Venue security arrives first—two guys in black polos—followed almost immediately by a pair of uniformed Cupid City officers and a detective in plain clothes.
Mack gives them the quick rundown in clipped, professional sentences: my name, the prior break-in in Saint Pierce, the note from before, the timing of this event.
He mentions the rehearsal specifically, how the room was secured when I left.
One of the officers pulls on gloves. Mack stays beside me while they step inside, careful not to disturb anything else. I watch them lift the box, turn it over—no wires, no bulk, no ticking. They untie the ribbon slowly, peel back the paper.
A small velvet case, deep sapphire blue.
My throat tightens.
The detective opens it with the tip of a pen.
A delicate silver necklace lies inside—thin chain, tiny crescent-moon pendant glittering with what look like real sapphires. Underneath it, a folded slip of paper.
The detective unfolds it with tweezers, scans it, then glances at me. “It’s addressed to you, Ms. Lyric. You want to hear it?”
I nod, even though every instinct screams no.
He reads in a flat, careful voice:
“For the moon who eclipses every light on that stage. Wear it tomorrow. I’ll be closer than you think. —Yours”
The hallway seems to shrink. My knees feel unsteady.
Mack’s hand finds the small of my back—firm, grounding. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps me upright while the officers bag the necklace and note as evidence, snap photos of the vanity, and promise to rush forensics.
When they’re done, they tell me the show can proceed if I feel secure enough. They’ll post extra uniforms, run background checks on credentialed attendees, keep eyes on the audience.
I manage a tight nod. “I’m not canceling. Not for him.”
Mack turns me gently to face him, hands on my shoulders. His eyes are steady, dark, and quietly furious on my behalf. “You’re not walking that runway without me in spitting distance. I’ll be stage left, comms open, plainclothes in the house.”
I swallow. “I wasn’t going to argue.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across his mouth. “Smart woman.” He brushes a stray strand of hair off my forehead, thumb lingering just a second too long. “Now go finish your touch-up. You’ve got another walk-through in twenty. I’m right here.”
I glance back at the now-empty vanity, the spot where the box sat like a bomb disguised as a gift.
Then I look at Mack—solid, watchful, ready to tear apart anyone who tries to get closer.
I take a breath, square my shoulders under the robe.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do this.”
Mack waits outside my dressing room. When I emerge, he's there. Like a solid fortress. "Good job."
"Praise from the grump? Be still my heart."
He rolls his eyes, but escorts me close. In the car, exhaustion hits and the fear creeps back. "Mack... what if it gets worse?"
"It might," he says bluntly. "But I'm here."
Simple words, but they warm me. Under the shell, I'm terrified. But with him? Maybe I can breathe.
Back at the penthouse, he checks everything again. I slip into silk pajamas, heart racing. One bed. Fake couple.
Instead, he takes the couch. "Sleep. I'll watch."
I mock-pout. "My hero."
But as the lights dim, fear whispers. I curl up, watching his silhouette.
He’s a gorgeous guardian. I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about my bodyguard, but I can’t help myself.
It’s been so long since I’ve been attracted to someone.
My career keeps me pretty busy, and the men I meet in my line of work don’t hold a candle to this brooding man before me.
I want to ask him to share the bed with me… but this isn’t a romcom.
So, I close my eyes and try to relax. I definitely don’t think about the stalker out to get me. And I definitely don’t think about the man on the couch.