That had to be it.
Definitely not because of how Chance sprawls in that chair, long legs stretched out before him, cargo pants hugging thick thighs in a way that makes my mouth run dry. The fabric pulls taut as he shifts, and I force my gaze away from the impressive display of muscle that comes from years of military training.
Chance's head snaps up from where he's pretending to be fascinated by the TV remote. Whatever he plans to say dies on his lips as his gaze tracks the movement of my hands. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his fingers flexing on the armrest like he's fighting to keep them there.
"Sleeping arrangements." I march over to the bed, my feet silent against the threadbare carpet, grateful my voice stays steady despite the way his gaze follows my every move.
"We sleep head-to-foot. That way, we each get our own blanket barrier, and it's not weird at all."
"Not weird at all," he echoes, but his voice has that rough edge again like a whiskey-soaked promise that should come with its own risk disclosure statement.
I settle cross-legged on the bed, pulling out my laptop. The familiar weight grounds me and reminds me why I'm here.
"I've got work to do anyway. Now that half of my materials are MIA, I need to put together a plan B in case I don’t get my damn luggage back. Vaultress isn't exactly a client you wing it with."
His spine snaps straight. "Vaultress? Vaultress Global—the cybersecurity giant?"
I nod, watching his reaction carefully. Few people outside the industry realize just how significant they are. "You know them?"
"Hard not to. I’m a Cyber Operations Specialist." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and something in his expression shifts from playful to serious. "They're setting industry standards right now. They're who everyone else is trying to catch up to."
"They have a staggering growth rate." Drumming my fingers against my laptop, I debate how much to tell him. Once the words are out, I can't stuff them back in. Right now, I have no audience for my failure. But I can’t deny the appeal of someone else carrying the weight of my secret, someone capable of understanding what I'm up against.
"A growth rate with the potential to launch them into the stratosphere. Problem is, they could just as easily collapse. I vote stratosphere. But if they choose my father?—”
“Wait?” Chance surges forward in his chair. "What does your father have to do with this?"
I trace the edge of my laptop, my nail catching on a scratch in the metal. "He’s my competition."
The muscle in his jaw flexes as his eyes turn predatory. Like I just activated some dormant military protocol in his brain that's now recalibrating everything he thought he knew about this trip.
My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "He doesn't know yet. No one does."
The look he gives me is impossible to read—part admiration, part concern, all intensity. "Holly..."
"Don't." I throw up my hand. I’ve heard it all before, hundreds of times. But I’ve never heard it from him. And for reasons I absolutely will not be looking any closer at, I don’t ever want to. "Don't tell me it's crazy. Or impossible. Or that I should just wait my turn."
"Actually," he says quietly, "I was going to ask why you don't just supersize the approach you know your father will take? Give them the 2.0 version.
A laugh bubbles up, but it's not entirely bitter. "Because that's not necessarily what they need. They think they want the most aggressive growth plan possible—they all do at first. But that's not how I work. I don’t want to give them what they think they want, I want to give them what I know they want.”
His eyebrows lift. “And how will you do that?”
I pull up my template, the familiar three-column structure centering me. “So, numbers don't tell the whole story. You have to watch people. Really watch them."
I glance up to find him studying me intently. The hitch in my breath is entirely coincidental.
“When I present options—steady growth, calculated risk, and what I call the 'dream big' scenario—I'm not just showing them projections. I'm learning who they are."
"How so?"
"Body language. Micro-expressions. Which slides entice them. Which make them shift in their seats." The words flow faster now, excitement building as I explain what makesme different—better—than the old guard. "Most of them don't actually know what they want until they see all the possibilities laid out. Until they understand what they'd have to sacrifice for each outcome."
"And your father doesn't work this way?"
"My father sees numbers as absolutes. Black and white. But people?" I shake my head. "People are all shades of gray."
Chance is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his words are measured. Careful. "What do you think he sees when he looks at you?"
