Fucking.
Way.
Connor Quinn.
His brooding gaze lands on me, brows furrowing. Then his eyes blaze with recognition and . . .
Rage.
ELEVEN
Lexi
I stand paralyzed in the doorway, laptop clutched in my white-knuckled grip as I meet Connor’s equally stunned expression.
His jaw is clenched, muscle twitching as he grapples for words, opening and closing his mouth in a silent yet terrifying snarl.
He looks utterly mindfucked—a volatile mix of fury, disbelief, and god knows what else swirling across his unfairly handsome features.
What the hell do I do?
Keep staring him down?
Make a run for it?
In this split second, I realize there are only a few ways this could play out, and none look good for me:
Scenario One—Clueless Quinn. He was too trashed to recall our tryst properly. Outcome: Bruised ego that he can’t remember my face and vagina, but no jail time. But judging by the flared nostrils and pulsing forehead vein, I’m ruling that one out.
Scenario Two—Pissy Quinn. Remembers me and is resentful I bailed, but his car wasn’t part of a crime spree. Outcome: Could tank my job, but no criminal charges.
And last but not least:
Scenario Three—Apocalypse Quinn. Remembers everything and wants my head on a spike for the theft. Goodbye pencil skirts, hello orange jumpsuit.
I nudge my glasses up, praying they’ll make me unrecognizable. No such luck. Because the way Quinn is glaring at me across the table, I should start clearing closet space for that prison jumpsuit.
Vicky jumps up, sending my anxiety through the roof. “Senator, Willow, allow me to introduce Brooke Jackson. She’ll be spearheading this campaign. You’re in excellent hands.”
“Senator, Miss Madison.” She greets them smoothly, then turns her charm on Quinn and the others. “Mr. Quinn, gentlemen, a pleasure.”
I suck in a breath as dread sinks lower. Connor and Willow must be an item if he’s here. What a horrible cheating sleaze.
“Pleasure? This is a goddamn circus!” the senator explodes, face tomato-red as he smooths his tie over his belly.
Brooke emits the softest hitch in her breath. Our unflappable Brooke, flapped.
Beside him, Willow looks ready to flee, a startled doe in virginal white. Daddy clearly picked that buttoned-up outfit to really sell the “wholesome daughter led astray” image.
She pats down a stray hair from her severely braided blond ’do. I sympathize with her horrible situation. No one deserves that. The press are assholes. I would say the person who recorded it is too, but maybe they were in a desperate situation like me. In the end, maybe we’re all some degree of asshole.
And then there’s Connor. He finally shifts his death stare from me to acknowledge Brooke. He leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers impatiently. Clearly Mr. Big Shot, in his sharp navy tailored suit, has better places to be.
“And this is Lexi, Brooke’s assistant,” Vicky throws in, as an afterthought.
Connor’s icy gaze snaps back to me, morphing from suave to downright murderous in an instant.
Oh god. This is really bad. I barely swallow my shriek of alarm.
