“What kind of man preys on a young woman like her?” The senator is working himself into an impressive frenzy now, looking like someone should hook him up to a blood pressure cuff.
Tense silence follows, everyone assuming it’s rhetorical. We stay frozen, as if sudden motions might set either of them off.
The guy next to me crosses his arms, and I hear a weird squelching sound from his armpit. I hope to god everyone knows that wasn’t me.
Even I have to admit, the man’s going overboard. Willow’s not exactly a kid—she’s what, twenty-four? Two years younger than me. But she just sits there, not moving a muscle.
Vicky opens and closes her mouth wordlessly.
“She’s too good for you, Quinn!” He jabs a sausage finger Connor’s way, trying to spear him from across the table. “Who do you think you are?” Each word is punctuated with spit flying across the table.
“I don’t argue that,” Connor grits out. “Your daughter’s a much better person than me. My patience is wearing thin here. Can we hurry this up and make a plan? We’re all busy people.”
He looks equal parts bored and irritated. He’s got this dangerous charisma about him that’s even more intense than I remember. His bronzed arm sports a flashy Rolex, gold catching the light with each agitated drum of his fingers. As if he’s got better places to be than getting scolded like a naughty rake.
Unwanted memories flood my mind. Connor’s dilated eyes devouring me, his hard body against mine, the primal sounds of pleasure he made. His dick felt huge.
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I squirm in my seat, trying to push away the image of us fucking. What the hell is wrong with me?
The senator’s still not finished roasting Connor. “You with your flashy cars and tacky penthouses, with hot tubs full of champagne and hookers! You young punks have no sense of decency!” he yells, jowls quivering. “I run this city, not you spoiled playboys! Walking around like you own the place, chasing after anyone’s backside who gives you a smile!”
Wow. My eyes dart back and forth between the two power players, heart pounding. The two men caught in the middle are frozen, probably holding their breath.
Driven by nervous energy, I start typing the names of the attendees before realizing this is definitelynotthe time for taking notes.
I freeze mid-type, cringing.
Connor looks calm yet violently enraged. One loafer rests lazily on his knee, suit stretching over those solid thighs that pinned me to the wall just nights ago.
But his breaths are measured, jaw granite. “For the record, I’ve never had hookers in hot tubs. That was media exaggerated,” he says calmly. “I’m quite discerning in my choices.” His gaze cuts to me, voice dropping to a menacing tone. “For the most part.”
I feel like I’ve been electrocuted.
“Now, let’s focus on solutions so we can get on with our day,” Connor directs the table, his deep voice thick with impatience. “But make no mistake, I don’t tolerate betrayals of trust.”
I don’t miss the dagger-sharp edge when he saystrust. Aimed right at my face. I slink lower, wishing the chair would swallow me.
“I’d prefer my own team handle this, but Willow insisted on your firm. So tell me—how exactly do you verify integrity?” Even as he speaks to Vicky, his glare is fixed on me. Probably picturing one billion ways to end me. “Why should I trust your people?”
I swallow hard, my bobbing throat surely visible to all.
“We have a very thorough screening process,” Vicky lies smoothly. Our “rigorous” process meaning hiring any warm body, like stoner Jess. “Only the best make it through. We’ll share it with your legal team.”
Connor snorts derisively. “I’m sure you’re very selective.” His husky drawl drips with sarcasm.
A shiver skitters down my spine at his menacing tone. He’s toying with me, a big cat playing lazily with his trapped mouse.
I’msogetting fired after this. But he wants me to sweat first.
Brooke smooths her skirt. “You’ve come to the right place, Mr. Quinn.”
Connor barely acknowledges her, his eyes coolly critiquing a Butt Buildr ad on the wall. “I can see that. What a comforting indication I’ve found the right agency to spearhead my reputation turnaround.”
Despite everything else going on, I shrink in my seat in shame.
But Brooke is unfazed by his sarcasm and dives right into her pitch. “Let me outline some strategies for immediate image repair,” she continues bullishly. “I recommend issuing a heartfelt public apology, complemented by a significant gesture—like donations to a charity that’s topical right now. Give the public something positive to focus on right away.”
The senator grunts. “It’ll need to be the apology of the century!”
