Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Christmas romanceWhy chooseMilitary romanceStalkingOne last jobForced proximityM/M/FSecond chance romanceOnly one bed
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
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.