Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
"Fine, warden." I dial room service, ordering extravagantly—pancakes, fruit, mimosas. Just to annoy him. "Two mimosas. Extra bubbly."
He shoots me a look. "Alcohol? Before noon?"
"It's orange juice with a kick. Lighten up." After I hang up, I perch on the table edge near him, legs dangling. "So, update me. Stalker scoop?"
He hesitates, then sighs. "Derek's alibi for the bouquet—shaky. Was in the area. Lila Shane deleted posts hinting at sabotage. Team's digging. Could be either, or both."
Closer. Good. But the note last night—Roses are red, your guard is blue...—creeps in. Fear prickles, but I shove it down. Mask on. "Derek's too dumb for poetry. Lila? She's got the venom."
"Doesn't matter. We stay vigilant." His eyes scan me. It’s protective and leaves goosebumps in its wake. "No solo trips today."
"Aye aye, captain." I salute, then steal his laptop, clicking randomly. "Ooh, what's this? Secret files?"
"Give it back." He reaches, but I hop off, dancing away.
"Make me." Taunt mode: activated. It’s so fun to see him riled.
He stands, slow and predatory. "Indigo..."
"Mack..." I mimic, backing toward the couch. "Come on, share. I'm the target, remember?"
He closes in, grabbing the laptop gently but firmly. Our bodies brush—chest to chest. Heat radiates. "You're impossible."
"You're irresistible." I tilt my chin, lips inches from his. The air thickens. I want him to close the gap, kiss me like last night. Badly. My pulse races, breath shallow.
His brown eyes drop to my mouth, darkening. His strong hand lingers on mine. "This game's dangerous."
"Who's playing?" Whisper-soft. I lean in, almost...
Room service knocks. He pulls back, cursing under his breath. The moment’s shattered. Darn it. I wanted that kiss so bad—his roughness, the surrender. But he straightens, checks the peephole, then lets them in.
Breakfast arrives on a heart-shaped tray. Of course. I plop down, masking my disappointment with a smirk. "Saved by the bell. Or the pancakes."
He sets the tray, eyeing the mimosas warily. "Eat fast. You’ve got fittings."
I nod, and then dig in. "These pancakes are perfection. Try one."
"No carbs before ops."
"Ops? It's lingerie, not war."
"With you? Feels like war." But he takes a bite from my fork, our eyes locking. Heat simmers low in my belly.
Post-breakfast, we head to the venue—escorted by two Heartline guys. Mack's hand is on my elbow. It’s possessive, but I don't pull away. I like it, actually.
The city's alive: couples kissing in booths, heart balloons everywhere. Paparazzi snap us—Mack glares them off.
At the showcase hall, security's tripled. Backstage, designers fuss over me. Fittings: lace bras, silk teddies, all red and pink. I change behind a screen, but Mack's nearby, eyes always scanning.
"Like the view?" I call, emerging in a sheer robe over a crimson bra-and-panty set. Trying my best to taunt him.
His gaze heats, jaw clenching. "Focus on the job."
"This is my job." I strut, posing. "Rate it. On a scale of 'protocol breach' to 'damn'."
He looks away, but not before I catch the hunger. "It's... fine."
"Fine? Ouch." I twirl closer. "Admit it looks good."
"It looks dangerous." Voice low, rough.
"For who? You or the audience?"
"Both." He steps up, adjusting my robe tie—fingers grazing against my heated skin. Electric. "Don't tempt fate."
"Or what? You'll bodyguard me harder?" I challenge, heart pounding.
His breath fans my neck. "You have no idea."
Almost... I tilt up, lips parting. I want it. Bad. His eyes drop, hand stilling.
Coco, the designer interrupts: "Indigo! Next set!"
Mack retreats. Again, and frustration boils, but it's thrilling. He's cracking.
Rehearsal drags—struts, poses, lights. Mack watches like a hawk. Lunch break: we eat in a secure room. "Is there any progress on the stalker?"
"Cass says Derek's holed up in a motel. Team's watching. Lila skipped a meeting. It’s suspicious."
"Good. Maybe it'll end before the show."
"Maybe." He hands me water. "Hydrate."
"Bossy." But I sip, slowly. My eyes watching him. Does he have to be so darn good-looking all the time. It’s exhausting.
By late afternoon, I taunt Mack via texts while changing—Bored? Send pics of your protocols. He replies: Focus.
Fun. But underneath, my feelings grow. His protectiveness, the rare chuckles. It’s real.
Once we’re done and Coco has declared me ready to kick ass, we head back to the penthouse. I’m exhausted, and collapse on the couch. "Massage time. Vetted masseuse?"
He nods, calling one up. While waiting, we review the footage from today. Mack’s on his laptop, and I lean over his shoulder. "See? That strut needs work."
"It's perfect." His voice is gruff. Was that a compliment?
"Flattery? From you?" I nudge his arm.
"Truth." His eyes meet mine. Searing straight through me.
The masseuse arrives before I can beg Mack to kiss me. Not that I’d ever beg… okay, fine, maybe a little. But the knock on the suite door saves me from finding out.
Mack opens it, body blocking most of the view like he’s expecting an ambush instead of a spa appointment. “You Matteo?”
The man nods—tall, dark-haired, early thirties, built like he spends more time lifting clients than dumbbells. He’s wearing black scrubs that hug his shoulders and carries a folding table under one arm, a leather case of oils in the other. “Yes, sir. House call for Ms. Lyric. One-hour deep tissue, correct?”