Evangeline

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"Movie Mogul James Ryder smiles on his first day in court."

I lean back in my plane seat, flicking through pages of my magazine as we wait on the tarmac for clearance. My father, as always, looks impeccable—bronzed skin, swept-back salt-and-pepper hair, and a crisp Armani suit.

He's grinning at the line of fans surrounding the courthouse, posing for the paps as if he doesn't have a care in the world. I bite my lip, hating how effortlessly he seems to brush it all off, especially when I've been worrying for weeks. But that's the luxury men like my father have—nine times out of ten, they find a way to escape a scandal, and a few months later, people forget. Women in Hollywood aren't ever quite so lucky.

I close my eyes briefly, bracing myself for one of the worst days of my life. Kael's premiere, the trial, my stalker—everything feels like it's crashing down around me, and there's nowhere to find cover.

Sighing, I reach into my Kelly, about to pull out my phone to check on my mother, when I remember Kat confiscated it from me. She insisted that avoiding social media is the best way to get through this trip and trial, but all it's done is make me obsess over what people might be saying about me. At least I know Caleb and Lilith are looking after my mother, so I don't have to worry about her handling it all alone. If everything goes as planned, I'll be at the premiere this evening and on a plane home by tomorrow.

I hope.

Reaching up, I adjust the air-con above me and recline in my seat. Chartering a private jet was my mother's idea—a luxury we haven't indulged in since my father's heartthrob years—but it was necessary. Leaving my house this morning was hard enough with helicopters circling and paps crowding the gates. There's no way I could have risked flying commercially today.

Unfortunately, I'm not the only one. Across the plane, looking like a giant in his seat, is Gabe. He's sitting with Stu and the other security detail we brought along—Jack, I think, a cute, baby-faced bodyguard who looks even younger than me, and Bailey, who's tall and intimidating and hasn't said a word, but at least he's professional, which is more than I can say for Gabe.

I'm not talking to him. In fact, I've been actively ignoring him for the past two weeks, ever since he decided I needed four bodyguards instead of two. Sure, a tiny part of me understands that it makes sense, especially with the trip to Miami and my stalker taking their harassment to a whole new level. But I'm punishing him for it anyway.

He could have talked to me about it beforehand, or at least pulled me aside after to explain why he thought it was necessary. But instead, as usual, he made my freedom his last priority.

It's why I hate that I can't stop thinking about him. I can't stop replaying that night in the hotel room, not just how good he made me feel, but how safe I felt wrapped in his arms afterward. For a brief moment, I let myself imagine a world where we could be something more, only for him to go and do the one thing he promised he wouldn't do again: take away my freedom.

I risk another glance at him and catch him staring back at me. His eyes train on mine as we enter another standoff, but I don't miss the hint of something affectionate lying behind that neutral expression. Even if I hadn't been ignoring him, there's been barely a moment in the last couple of weeks where we've had a chance to be alone, so we haven't had the opportunity to talk about what happened.

Instead, our communication has been reduced to small gestures—his hand lingering on my waist, the protective glint in his eye as he looks at me—each one a subtle plea for my attention, but I'm not giving in.

I pick up my martini, sliding an olive off the skewer between my teeth as Kat runs through today's itinerary. A fun, girly shopping trip to take my mind off everything, followed by an evening of getting ready and heading to the premiere with Jude, who'll be arriving just before we leave.

I'm dreading every second of it—the thought of seeing Kael again after he dumped me sits like a lead weight in my stomach. For someone who claims to crave independence, my life has so quickly spiraled out of my control, dictated by headlines, Lilith, and security. And the worst part?

I'm letting it happen.

"There's drama between Stu and Gabe," Kat says, glancing up from her schedule to study the two of them across the plane. She turns to me, lowering her voice like she's about to spill some juicy gossip. "Gabe doesn't want us going shopping today. He thinks we should stay in until the premiere, but Stu's pushing back."

"Sounds about right." Ever since that night at my mother's house, he's been overbearingly protective.

"I don't care what either of them thinks," Kat says firmly. "We're going shopping. You need a break from all this bullshit, and I need to treat myself to a new dress."

I smile. Kat has always been the ultimate shopaholic, always on the hunt for a new outfit and never one to repeat the same look twice. Half the clothes I get for free usually end up in her closet anyway. "Alright, fine," I say, giving in. "But I need a nap first, so make sure the others know not to disturb me."

The next few hours are spent trying to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Ever since my stalker threatened to kill me, I've been plagued by nightmares, waking up in the middle of the night convinced that whoever it is has somehow made it through my four henchmen and found me. Needless to say, my appearance hasn't benefited from it.

An hour before we land, I touch up my makeup in the pullout mirror and head to the bathroom to freshen up. Just as I reach the door, it swings open, and I nearly collide with Gabe as he steps out, that infuriatingly arched eyebrow of his making my cheeks flush. For a brief, insane second, I imagine pushing him back inside, closing the door behind us, and picking up where we left off. But then, common sense kicks in, pulling me back to reality.

"Piccola," he murmurs in that smooth, gravelly voice that always manages to melt my insides. I ignore him, ready to spin on my Manolos and head back to my seat, but a sudden jolt of turbulence pushes us together.

His hand instinctively catches my waist, and the contact sends electric shocks through my skin as he stares down at me. Stu, Kat, and everyone else are just a few feet away, but I can't bring myself to step back. It's the first time we've been alone since my new, more intense security routine started—all thanks to him.

"Remove your hands," I say, my voice low, "before I kindly remove them for you."

His eyes darken impatiently as he lowers his head, dropping his voice so only I can hear. "How long are you planning on staying mad at me?"

"Until hell freezes over," I offer, taking in the hard-set line of his jaw. God, I wish I didn't still want to kiss him. "You know how I feel about more security, but you went ahead and did it anyway without even talking to me first."

"I didn't have a choice," he says, his grip on my waist tightening. "Your stalker made a threat on your life, and your team were sending you off to Miami. Tell me what I was supposed to do."

"You could have spoken to me before deciding anything," I say, "instead of just deciding for me."

Irritation flashes in his eyes. "I'm your bodyguard," he says as if I've forgotten—maybe we both have. "It's my job to make those decisions for you, whether you like them or not. I won't apologize for trying to keep you safe."

That's the problem, I realize—why this would never work. Gabe has proven time and time again that his mission to keep me safe is more important than my freedom or wishes, and it always will be. That's his job, his duty. He will always put my safety first, even if it means jeopardizing my liberties.

"Of course," I say, tilting my head.  "Safety is more important than freedom, right?"

I don't know what he would have said because the plane jolts again. Gabe's perfectly controlled exterior cracks as panic flickers in his eyes. He clutches the side of the door, gripping it tightly while his other hand grips my waist.

"Are you alright?" I ask, searching his face. He looks unusually pale.

"Yes." His voice is low. Strained. He lifts his gaze, and the moment those dark eyes land on mine, I forget that I'm supposed to be mad at him.

"Hey," I say softly, touching his arm. "It's just a little turbulence. Everything's fine."

Just then, the captain announces we're experiencing turbulence and asks everyone to take their seats. I grab Gabe's hand, leading him to the empty seats behind the bathroom, away from the others, and quickly fasten both our seatbelts. Turning to face him, I gently cup his face in my hand, guiding his gaze to mine. "Just breathe."

"I'm trying." He pops open his top button, loosening his tie as a pale clamminess spreads across his face. His eyes meet mine, unsteady. When his hands start to tremble, he clenches them at his sides, but I reach out, gently taking them in mine, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

"How do you take your coffee?"

His eyes flick to mine like I'm insane. "What?"

"Your coffee," I say like it's obvious. "How do you take it?"

"Black."

"Like your soul then."

I mean it as a joke to lighten the mood, but he doesn't smile. If anything, his eyes grow darker. "Exactly." 

"I like caramel lattes," I say, tilting my head, "but then you already knew that." In fact, he knows more about me than most. "What's your favorite ice cream flavor?"

He doesn't answer. His eyes are closed as if I'm not here. I unclip my seatbelt and kneel between his knees, looking up at him. "I'm waiting."

His eyes flick open. "Evangeline," he says through clenched teeth. "Put your fucking seatbelt on."

"Not until you tell me."

"Pistachio," he says, gripping my shoulders like he thinks this bit of turbulence will send me rolling across the plane. I don't have the heart to tell him this is barely anything and that the seatbelt sign is just a precaution. Instead, I focus on keeping him distracted.

"That is the worst ice cream flavor you could have chosen. What's wrong with you?"

He smirks faintly. "There was this small ice cream parlor in my village that made the best homemade pistachio ice cream. My grandmother would take me there every weekend after my kickboxing class. She thought I deserved it after all that hard work."

"She sounds like a really nice grandma," I say.

He closes his eyes. "She was."

His grip eases slightly as the tension drains from his body. The turbulence has lessened, and he glances around, confirming that the shaking has stopped. When he turns back to face me, there's a look in his eyes I've never seen before, but one that, no matter what, I know I want to see again.

Someone clears their throat behind us. I turn to find Kat staring, her mouth practically hanging open. I quickly jump to my feet, avoiding her gaze, and silently follow her back to our seats.

"What exactly did I just walk in on?" she asks.

"Nothing. The turbulence unsettled him. I was just trying to help."

She smirks. "On your knees?"

I ignore her remark and turn to the window, staring out at the clouds as she runs through the logistics of the premiere.

By the time we land in Miami, I'm already exhausted, and the day hasn't even started. We leave the tarmac in a luxury car Gabe had arranged, and when we finally reach the Fontainebleau, all I want to do is collapse into bed, order room service, and have a real nap. But, of course, I can't.

Kat and I have to wait in the lobby while security sweeps the two-story suite. They knew exactly where we'd be staying before we even arrived, what the layout is, and now they're doing their final checks.

Finally, we're escorted up to the suite. Jack steps aside, holding the door open for me with a grin that has that Labrador-like energy, instantly making me feel a little less stressed. I thank him and walk into the suite, which boasts five bedrooms, a lounge area, a kitchen, and a balcony with a stunning view of the beach. I turn to Jack, letting him know I'm feeling tired, and then head straight for the master bedroom.

The first thing I do is kick off my heels—I always feel so restricted in them—and perch on the edge of the king-sized bed, staring out at the picturesque view of the ocean in the distance. It irritates me that I can't even visit a new city and simply swim in the ocean or explore a new restaurant. Instead, I have to stick to a schedule and attend a premiere I don't even want to go to.

God, maybe Gabe's right—I'm spoiled. Most people I know, including Kat, would kill to attend a premiere, and here I am, feeling sorry for myself while staying in a beautiful hotel with an incredible ocean view and the chance to wear a stunning dress tonight.

"Piccola," comes a low, familiar voice from the other side of the door, followed by two firm knocks. "Can I come in?"

Butterflies flutter in my chest as I tell him he can. The door swings open, and Gabe fills the doorway, his presence almost overwhelming. He's wearing a light gray t-shirt that clings to his impressive muscles, giving me a clear view of the tattoos swirling up his forearms—the same ones that pinned me to the bed just weeks ago.

"Everything is all clear. Once Jack gets back from checking out the stores, we'll head out."

"Fine. Thanks."

He walks over to me, but I look away, trying to steady my breath. He leans in, grazing my jaw with his mouth. "Thank you."

That's it—just those two words—but it's enough to make my skin flush and, for a moment, forget why I'm so mad at him. Then he stands, crossing the room without another word, and closes the door behind him.

I sigh and throw myself back against the bed, but there's no rest for the wicked. Kat barges into my room without knocking, and I sit up as she drops down beside me on the bed, unlocking my phone.

"You got another message," she says, her rushed tone already warning me that I'm not going to like it. I take the phone from her, my eyes immediately locking on the messages from the unknown number.

Saw your latest post. I'd like to see those lips up close.

Preferably around my cock.

I feel like I'm going to be sick. It's not the first explicit message I've received from a fan, but it's the first one from a stalker who knows my phone number and home address. I tighten my grip on my phone, debating whether to show it to Gabe, but what difference would it make? He already has me on round-the-clock watch, so whoever this asshole is can't get to me.

I'm still fighting off the nausea when I notice Kat typing furiously into the message box. "What are you doing?" I ask, reaching for the phone, but she quickly dodges me, her pink, manicured nails flying over the screen.

"I'm telling this psycho that there's no way your mouth is going anywhere near his pathetic little Chipolata, and he needs to leave you the hell alone before I make him regret the day he was born."

"Kat, no. It'll only provoke him."

"Who cares? This has been going on for months, Eva. Clearly, ignoring him isn't working. He needs to know he can't just mess with my best friend and get away with it."

She has a point. I lean over her shoulder as she presses send, smirking at how ruthless she's been about their "chipolata." Almost instantly, a picture comes through of something I did not want to see, followed by the message: not a chipolata.

"Fantastic," I say.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she says, still staring at the picture. "Although I wasn't expecting such a remarkably nice...appendage."

I snatch the phone from her hands, ready to delete the picture, but she grabs my wrist. "Kat, I swear to God—"

"Any message or photo you get is evidence," she says, her grip on my wrist firm as she lowers my phone. "And you know you need to show Gabe."

"Fine," I say, tucking my phone into my bag, "I'll show him after we're done shopping," but it's a lie. If I show Gabe this picture, he'll probably overreact and confine me to my hotel room or call in more of his GSS buddies. For now?

I need retail therapy.