Chapter 6 #2
Charles stopped walking and turned to face me.
The hallway light caught the worry lines around his eyes.
“I’ve put a lot of dangerous men behind bars, Mr. Holland.
I’ve received threats against myself, but someone going after my daughter…
” His jaw tightened. “I need to know she’s protected. Whatever it takes.”
“She will be, sir,” I promised him. “You have my word.”
He studied me for a long beat, and whatever he found must have satisfied him because he gave a short nod. “So, where would you like to start?”
“A tour of the house and grounds, then a look at your security system,” I told him.
“My wife can help with that,” he said, and we resumed walking. “I’m afraid I live at the office and she knows more about those things than I do.”
We reached the end of the hallway, which opened into a kitchen that was roughly the size of my entire apartment.
White marble countertops, a massive island with seating for eight, stainless steel appliances, and French doors that opened onto a stone patio overlooking an Olympic sized pool and the rear grounds.
A woman sat at the island, typing on a laptop with a teacup beside her.
Celeste Hayward was exactly as her file photo suggested.
Impeccably put together, with honey-blonde hair styled in soft waves, a cream cashmere sweater, and pearl earrings.
She looked up as we entered and smiled, warm but practiced.
“You must be Stella’s bodyguard.” She closed her laptop and stood, extending a manicured hand. “I’m Celeste. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Happy to help, ma’am.” I shook her hand and segued right into work mode.
“Your husband mentioned you’d be the one to walk me through the existing security setup and the layout of the house and property.
I’ll want to do a full audit of the system.
Evaluate the camera placement, check for blind spots, and likely recommend some upgrades. I’d also like to—”
“Oh, Stella,” Celeste said, interrupting me as her gaze shifted to something, or someone, over my shoulder. “Come in and meet your new bodyguard.”
Knowing this moment was inevitable, I kept my breathing steady and set my expression to neutral. Then, I turned around.
Stella stood in the kitchen doorway, and the sight of her hitting me like a fist to the solar plexus.
She was exactly as I remembered and completely different all at once.
The same wide-set blue eyes, the same pretty features, the same mouth I’d spent too much time thinking about since our night together.
But this wasn’t the woman from the club, dressed in that sexy purple dress and eager to explore all her desires.
This Stella was polished and put-together and reserved.
She wore a gauzy white blouse layered over a fitted sage tank top, high-waisted jeans that elongated her legs, and her blonde hair pulled into a sleek ponytail that exposed the line of her neck.
She looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion editorial, effortless in a way that probably took considerable effort.
She was looking at her mother, annoyance flickering across her features, then her gaze shifted to me.
And everything around us seemed to go very, very still.
I watched recognition and shock crash through her in real time.
Her eyes widened just a fraction, but I’d spent a night learning her tells, and I caught it.
Her lips parted. A flush bloomed up her neck and spread across her cheeks, turning her fair skin pink.
I saw the exact moment memory collided with reality, and the way her gaze flicked over my face like she was confirming I was real, that I wasn’t some trick of her imagination.
“Miss Hayward.” I extended my hand, keeping my voice professional and steady, even as every cell in my body was remembering the last time I’d touched her.
“I’m Tate. It’s good to meet you. I’ve reviewed the preliminary file, but once I finish assessing the property, I’d like to sit down with you to discuss your daily routine and any areas of concern you might have. ”
She stared at my outstretched hand like it might bite her. Then, as if realizing we had an audience, she slowly took it.
The contact was brief—a professional handshake, nothing more—but her fingers were warm and slightly unsteady in mine, and the touch sent a charge straight through me.
Her eyes locked onto mine, and for one electric second we were back at The Players Club, her wrists bound above her head, her breath coming fast, her body arching beneath mine—
She abruptly pulled her hand back but I held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
Unprofessional, maybe. But I needed her to see that I wasn’t going to pretend.
That whatever had happened between us, I remembered every second of it even if I couldn’t do anything about the attraction still evident between us.
“Why don’t I give you the tour of the house?” Celeste said brightly, oblivious to the silent detonation that had just occurred in her kitchen. “We can start with the ground floor and work our way up. Stella, darling, why don’t you come along? You should know the security protocols too.”
“I’m familiar with the house, Mom. I did grow up here.” Stella’s voice had steadied, but her color was still high.
“Yes, but there have been some changes since you moved out. The alarm codes, for one, and—”
“Fine.” Stella lifted her chin, her annoyance at her mother’s insistence clear. “Let’s do the tour.”
Celeste led the way out of the kitchen, already talking about the system’s control panel and which zones were armed at night versus during the day.
Charles excused himself to make a phone call, and I fell into step behind Celeste, which put Stella beside me.
Close enough that I could smell her perfume—something light, floral, completely different from the darker, more provocative scent she’d worn at the club.
Despite the awareness between Stella and I, we said nothing as Celeste guided us through room after room—a formal living area with furniture that looked like it had never been sat on, a wood-paneled study that smelled of leather and old books, a dining room with a table that could seat twenty, a sunroom overlooking the backyard.
I catalogued everything—windows, entry points, sight lines, potential vulnerabilities—while simultaneously tracking Stella in my peripheral vision.
She moved through the house like someone who knew every inch of it and resented that knowledge.
Her shoulders were tense, her posture rigid as we headed up the staircase to the second floor and toward a separate wing of the house.
When Celeste indicated Stella’s old room where she’d be staying, something flickered across Stella’s face—frustration, resignation, almost a bone-deep weariness that made her look older than her years.
I could feel the tension between Stella and her mother—mostly from Stella—and I wasn’t quite sure where it stemmed from.
But it was obvious to me that Stella wasn’t happy about being moved back under her parents’ roof, as her father had indicated.
I didn’t know the dynamics between the family well enough yet to make any assumptions.
“And this is where you’ll be staying,” Celeste said to me as she opened a door, revealing a large room decorated in blue and cream hues. “It used to be Charlie’s room, but I’ve turned it into a guest suite. It’s right across from Stella’s room, which I thought would be convenient.”
I glanced at Stella. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
“Across the hall?” she repeated incredulously.
“Well, he needs to be close by, darling,” Celeste said, giving her daughter a perfectly composed smile. “That’s the whole point of having him here.”
Stella’s mouth opened, and I could see the argument forming—could practically see her weigh the battle against the cost of fighting it. After a long moment, she pressed her lips together and said nothing.
“The guest suite will be fine,” I said evenly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hayward.”
“Celeste, please,” she said, waving a hand in the air. “We’re going to be living under the same roof, after all. No need for formality.”
After the tour, we ended up back in the kitchen again and I turned to Stella. “I’ll need a list of people you associate with,” I told her.
She frowned at me. “Like my clients?”
“Clients?” I asked, confused. “The preliminary report we were given said you were currently unemployed.”
“Oh, she’s some kind of fashion influencer,” Celeste said before Stella could speak. “She makes clothes and posts them on her social media, that kind of thing, so it doesn’t really count as employment.”
“It does count, Mother,” Stella refuted, her spine straightening.
She shifted her gaze back to me, but I could feel the irritation radiating off her, sharpened by something older than this conversation. Her lips pressed together for a beat, like she was deciding how much of herself she was willing to defend in front of me.
“I’m a fashion designer,” she said evenly, though I didn’t miss the flicker of pride I saw in her eyes.
“I design and create custom dresses and gowns for women and soon, menswear—structured pieces, tailored jackets, limited capsule collections. I source the fabrics, draft the patterns, and make each piece myself. It’s a business. ”
Celeste gave a faint hum, the kind that said she wasn’t convinced.
“And contrary to what my mother likes to think,” Stella continued, the color rising back into her cheeks, “people actually pay me for those designs. I have private clients who commission pieces, stylists who pull from my line, and a waiting list for my next release.”
Her chin lifted, daring her mother to contradict her.