Page 10 of Gunnar

“Miss Martin,” Jagger interrupts. “Wait? Do you really not know who she is?”

Without answering, I glance down at the folder and the photo of our newest client. She’s beautiful. Not in the classic Hollywood or magazine way, where everyone looks manufactured and impossible, airbrushed into something resembling a mannequin. Just… beautiful.

Her light brown hair, caught in a moment of movement, looks silky to the touch. Laughing at something off camera, her hazel eyes sparkle. The extra light in them showcases the notes of green and gold flecked around her irises. She has delicate features, high cheekbones, and a slender, slightly upturned nose. Her full pink lips curve into a smile that looks genuine, despite her profession having likely trained her how to fake happiness.

While I ogle the photograph before me, Damon flips through his folder. His expression darkens as he skims through the contents. “Why are they always actors?”

“Or musicians,” Jagger grouses.

“Regardless, they’re always a complete and utter pain in the ass,” I add.

Everyone seated at the table nods their agreement. “She has a legitimate threat,” Abby shares over our collective annoyance about this assignment.

“They all have legitimate threats,” I flatly insist. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t all a pain in the ass.”

“Not like this,” Abby corrects. I know she’s referencing the threat, but I can’t help but wonder whether her assertion carries over to Miss Martin being a pain in the ass, too.

My interest piqued, I thumb through the papers before me. The first page contains the basics: name, age, career history, recent public appearances, awards, and achievements. It’s a standard—yet impressive—biography of someone who has spent two decades becoming one of the most visible people on the planet. Well, for most people… I still have no idea who this woman actually is.

After pulling my gaze from her photograph, where it has become affixed, I force myself to flip to the next page and immediately decide she is going to be a nightmare.

A very pretty nightmare, but a nightmare, nonetheless.

Her upcoming itinerary is littered with red carpets, public appearances, fan interactions, press tours, and media obligations. As if that weren’t bad enough, there’s still the paparazzi and thousands upon thousands of strangers constantly trying to get close to her who will need to be dealt with.

The dull throb behind my temples starts before I finish reading through the threat assessment. As though he’s reading with me, Jagger reaches the same conclusion I do. “No.” His groan carries genuine pain. “Give her to someone else. One of the junior teams. They need the experience.”

“Sorry, Jag.” Abby’s apology carries zero empathy. “Due to the situation, they’ve specifically requested the best we have.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he croons with that cocky-ass grin.

I continue reading, and the further I get into the file, the less I appreciate Jagger’s jovialness about this assignment. The professional in me is quickly overriding the man who would rather be anywhere else. Abby has provided us with a litany of threatening letters, documentation of stalking incidents, and, most recently, a security breach. It’s an escalation pattern that shows someone becoming bolder, more confident, and more dangerous with each contact.

Celebrity nonsense is one thing. We’ve dealt with overzealous fans who send too many letters, executives who get a little too close, and even the occasional aggressive autograph hunter. They are annoying, but manageable. The breach of her residence that warranted a call to us is another beast entirely. When someone crosses the threshold from public harassment to private invasion, the rules change. And so do the stakes. The psychology of the threat morphs from obsession and admiration to entitlement and possession.

I turn another page, my movements slower, as I read every detail meticulously. According to the threat assessments compiled by a previous security team and law enforcement, the stalker appears organized, patient, and methodical. He—I assume—is obsessive in a way that suggests he’s highly intelligent with ample time and resources. He is smart enough to avoid stupid mistakes, learning from his engagement and adapting.

Once I’ve flipped back to the front of the folder, I glance at the photograph that originally stole my attention. “When do we meet her?”

A slow smile appears on Abby’s face, the kind that says she knew exactly how this conversation would end. She knows us well, and by putting these folders before us, she likely had no doubt that the moment we saw the details, we’d stop complaining and start working.

“Tomorrow morning. I’m putting you on the red eye to get boots on the ground ASAP. The rest of the team will be a few hours behind you with whatever supplies you all deem necessary.”

I nod, mentally shifting gears and preparing to become acquainted a woman who has no idea how much we are going to completely upend her life. I’m preparing how best to do my job, despite the inconvenient fact that I can’t seem to stop staring at her photograph.

Standing in the center of my closet in my underwear, I am paralyzed by indecision. I have spent the past forty-five minutes trying to decide what to wear. It’s ridiculous. Completely, utterly, and inexcusably ridiculous. I know it. The way Sarah keeps finding excuses to wander past my room to check on me, I’m certain she knows it, too.

It’s not like I’m dressing for a date. This isn’t an interview, a press event, or even a meeting with a director about a potential role. It is nothing more than meeting with a security professional. A man I hired, whose job is literally to keep me safe—to stand between me and whoever thinks he has a right to invade my home, my peace, and my sanity.

Yet, I’m still in the middle of my closet staring at two nearly identical cashmere sweaters—one cream and the other oatmeal—as if the future of civilization depends on my picking correctly.

“You’re overthinking this.” I glance at the doorway to find Sarah leaning against the frame. She is cradling her coffee cup with both hands, and her expression is traitorously amused. She has been my assistant—and my friend—for seven years, which means she knows exactly how out of character this is for me. I’m not one to hesitate and second-guess. I make quick decisions, sometimes impulsively, and then live with the aftermath. Except today.

“I’m not,” I lie, turning back to the sweaters and grabbing the oatmeal one. “I’m not trying to impress them.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m allowed to care what I look like.” I pull on a camisole before slipping into the cardigan. “I’m allowed to want to feel like myself when a stranger starts analyzing my life.”