Page 37 of My Masked Savior
“Basia, this is a terrible idea,” I whine for the tenth time, trying to catch up with her in the crowd. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I just finished working late for a demanding client when she showed up to drag me to Times Square for the ball drop. “You shouldn’t be out until you get your bodyguard tomorrow.”
“I’ll be fine,” she replies with a negligent wave of her hand. “Who’s going to find me in this crowd?”
The air in Times Square feels electric, charged with thousands of bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, bundled in coats and scarves, faces flushed from the cold and the excitement. Street vendors line the sidewalks, selling everything from steaming pretzels to cheap plastic champagne flutes. Somewhere nearby, a saxophone player is trying to belt out “Auld Lang Syne” over the deafening chatter.
The entire avenue is a living, breathing thing—flashing lights, laughter, the scent of roasted chestnuts and burned coffee swirling together in the icy wind. Confetti already dusts the ground from an earlier event, sparkling under thefloodlights like frost.
“Because no one’s ever been followed in a crowd before,” I mutter, clutching my crossbody bag tighter and scanning the sea of people. My heart is pounding in that familiar, uneven rhythm. Too many strangers, too many places for someone to hide.
Basia just throws me a grin over her shoulder, her blonde curls bouncing beneath a knit beanie. “Relax, More! It’s New Year’s Eve! Don’t you want to actually see the ball drop for once instead of watching it from your couch in sweatpants?”
“Yes,” I say flatly, “because nothing screams self-care like frostbite and claustrophobia.”
She laughs, linking her arm through mine. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless.”
She stops suddenly, turning to face me with that mischievous smile that’s both infuriating and impossible to resist. “Come on, just for tonight. No trauma. No work. No bodyguards or stalkers or heavy conversations. Just two friends ringing in the New Year like normal people.”
Normal. The word stings more than it should.
I sigh, looking up at the massive digital screens that surround the square. They’re looping ads and countdowns, colors so bright they almost hurt my eyes. The air smells like ozone and fireworks waiting to happen.
“Fine,” I relent. “But if I get trampled by drunk tourists, you’re telling Damien.”
“Oh, please.” Basia waves it off. “Bet your new boyfriend would love to get to play savior again.”
I duck my head and flush, the thought of Damien being my boyfriend making enough warmth spread through me to chase away the late December frost.
We find a spot near the barricades, close enough tosee the glittering ball perched high above the street. Music blasts from the stage down the avenue, a mash-up of pop songs and live performances, the bass thrumming in my chest. The crowd is buzzing—strangers sharing flasks, couples kissing, everyone counting down to a clean slate.
Basia’s eyes are bright, reflecting the riot of color from the big screens. She looks carefree, untouchable, and I let myself hope this really can be just a night out.
But then, over her shoulder, I see a man standing too still in the chaos—dark coat, gloved hands, no visible phone, no laughter. Just watching. Not us, exactly. But notnotus, either.
A chill creeps up my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Hey,” Basia says, nudging me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie automatically. “Just… It’s cold.”
She rolls her eyes, handing me her spare pair of gloves. “God, you’re hopeless.”
As she turns back toward the countdown stage, I glance over her shoulder again.
The man is gone.
But the feeling stays—that prickling sense between my shoulder blades that says I’m being watched. I force a smile when Basia looks back at me, clapping along with the crowd as the big screen starts the countdown.
“Ten!”
“Come on, More!” she shouts over the noise, grabbing my hand.
“Nine!”
“Eight!”
People are cheering, confetti cannons fire in the distance, and for a moment, I let myselfget swept up in it, be normal again. I scream the numbers with everyone else until my throat feels raw.
