Page 19 of Noel
And don’t even get me started on his voice—low, deep, with that faint scrape that sounds like it was carved out of midnight.
Bonus?He’s got a sharp tongue and an infuriating sense of humor.I find myself waiting for the next outrageous thing he’s going to say just so I can bite back.
It’s pathetic.I know it.
He’s here doing a job—protecting me because Clementine pulled strings—but that doesn’t stop the lonely, traitorous part of me that keeps wondering what it would feel like to have someone like him look at me for me.
Is it him?My person?The one I keep pretending I don’t still believe in?
Unlikely.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop daydreaming.Because dayum, the man fills out those black tactical pants like they were stitched onto him by angels with sinful intentions.
And honestly, what’s a little verbal sparring if not foreplay?
“Where to next?”he asks, his deep voice sliding over my nerves like smoke.
I jolt, my body reacting before my brain catches up.
“What?Oh, uh—the venue.The Stargazer Hotel.”
He nods once, gaze cutting back to the road.I turn to look out the window, pretending I’m focused on the Manhattan skyline instead of the way my heart is pounding.
I can handle this.I have to handle this.
I run events for a living.Chaos is my baseline, panic is practically a personality trait, and I’ve wrangled more overdramatic clients and diva caterers than a sane person should.
A few creepy notes don’t change that.
Having Noel Kane drive me around like my personal shadow doesn’t change that either.
Except it does.
Because when he shifts in his seat—big, broad shoulders moving under that black t-shirt, muscles flexing like they have opinions—it does something to me.When he glances at me from the corner of his eye, it’s like he’s reading every thought I’ve ever had and cataloging them for later.
It’s confusing.And maddening.And a little intoxicating.
“Are you sure we need you here?”I ask, my voice lighter than I feel.“It’s just a venue walkthrough.One of the managers will meet me.They don’t usually let stalkers past the catering tables.”
He glances at me then, one eyebrow ticking up.
“Their people are used to cutting off trust-fund kids who’ve had too much champagne,” he says flatly.“They don’t handle stalkers.And they don’t protect event planners getting notes that escalated from ‘stay away’ to ‘you shouldn’t have said yes.’”
His tone is clipped, professional—no warmth, no room for argument.
But then he looks at me again, and something softens.
“You don’t get to decide the threat level, Holly,” he says quietly, voice like the rumble of an approaching storm.“I do.”
He says it like a rule.Like a promise.
My breath catches.
Then, just like that, the edges of his mouth curve, teasing back into existence, undoing me all over again.
“Besides,” he adds, low and rough, “I’m on the job now.And whether you like it or not, you’re not going anywhere without me, Tinsel.”
I blink.“That’s not an answer.”
