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)
Dammit.
SIX
MACK
I stare at the latest update from Cass on my phone: Derek Voss spotted lurking near the showcase venue earlier today, but slipped the tail. Lila's still MIA on socials. The net's tightening, but not fast enough. Tomorrow's the big show, and Indigo's fittings wrapped without incident—small mercy. She's in the bathroom now, "freshening up" after her massage, while I pace the living area like a caged wolf. The almost-kiss earlier lingers, my hands on her silky fucking skin. Too close. Distractions like that could get us both killed.
She emerges in yoga pants and a crop top, all curves and confidence, hair still damp. "Staring at your phone won't catch the stalker, Mack. What's the plan? Another night of room service and glaring? Or do you want to finish your massage?"
I pocket the device, not taking the bait. "Optics. We need to sell the fake couple angle harder. Tabloids are buzzing… 'Indigo's Mystery Man.' Dinner out. Public spot. Let the paps see us cozy."
Her eyes light up. "A date? With you? Be still my heart."
"Fake date," I correct, but my pulse kicks up. "Draws out the stalker if they're watching. Plus, kills the rumors."
She saunters closer, poking my chest. "Admit it, you just want an excuse to hold my hand."
I catch her wrist, gentle but firm. Heat sparks. "Keep pushing, princess."
She smirks, pulling free. "Fine. I'll play along. But I pick the place—Amour Bistro. Heart-shaped everything. Fitting for Cupid City."
I grunt my approval. It's central, easy to secure. I call King Wilder for backup. He’s Heartline Security and I trust him. Thirty minutes later, we're in the SUV, her in a slinky red dress that hugs like sin, me in dark jeans and a button-down to blend. Her perfume fills the space, vanilla teasing my senses.
At Amour, the valet eyes us, but I tip heavy and scan the street. Paparazzi’s already clustering across the road, flashes ready. I offer my arm—optics—and she takes it, leaning in with a staged giggle. "Smile, grump. We're in love."
"Convincing," I mutter, but her warmth seeps through my sleeve. Inside, the place is a Valentine nightmare: candlelight, rose petals, couples murmuring. Hostess seats us at a window table—visible, per my request. King texts: Perimeter clear.
We order—steak for me, salad for her. Wine arrives, red like her dress. She sips, eyes on me over the rim. "So, fake boyfriend, tell me about the military. Bet you were all heroics and high-seas drama."
I tense. Not my favorite topic. "Joined at 18. Deployments, ops. Left after a few years. End of story."
She tilts her head. "Come on. What made you enlist? Family tradition? Or just love of danger?"
I swirl my glass, staring at the swirl. "Dad was military—presumed dead when I was 15. Nash, my oldest brother, pushed us all toward service. Structure. Purpose." I don't mention the void it filled, the rage at losing him. "Your turn. How'd a girl like you end up strutting for cameras?"
She laughs, light but with an edge. "Mom's doing. She was a pageant queen in her day—Miss Small Town USA or something. Put me and my little sister, Viola, in kiddie contests from age five. Glitz, gowns, the works. Viola hated it—dropped out at 12, went the rebel route. Tattoos, rock bands. But me? I stuck with it. Won a few crowns, got scouted at 16. Boom. Modeling contracts."
"Regrets?" I ask, genuinely curious. Her world's all gloss, but I see the cracks.
She shrugs. "Sometimes. Mom pushed hard—diets, rehearsals. But it paid off. Independence, travel. Viola's jealous now, but we're tight." Her eyes soften. "What about your brothers? All military?"
"Varied. Nash intel, Crewe strategy, Sin's a loose cannon, Banks tech whiz, Jace and Colt muscle." I keep it vague. "Planning a reunion soon—family business."
" Mysterious." She leans in, elbow resting on the table. "Bet you're the protector type. Always were."
Before I can respond, flashes erupt outside. Paparazzi—three of them—pressing against the glass, shouting her name. "Indigo! Who's the hunk? New flame? Come outside before we come in there and ruin you."
I stand instantly, body between her and the window. I’d wanted our picture taken for optics, but not like this. "Stay put." Adrenaline surges. One snapper edges closer, lens aimed. I signal the manager, who calls security, but I'm already moving. Out the door in seconds, King flanking from the shadows.
"Back off," I growl, voice low thunder. The lead pap edges forward. "Just a pic, man—"
I step into his space, not touching but dominating. "She's eating. You get your shots from afar. Cross the line, and it's assault."
He blanches, and retreats. Flashes continue, but at a safe distance. I scan for threats—anyone lingering too long? No Derek, no suspicious faces. Back inside, Indigo's watching, lips curved.
"My hero," she teases as I sit. "Very protective."
"Job," I say, but her gaze holds heat. Dinner resumes and we keep the banter light. In fact, I find myself enjoying myself. She’s… real.