To avoid the hassle of parking downtown, we take an Uber. The inner office on the top floor is secured behind a smoky glass wall, sandblasted with Friar Development. I press the button and wait to be buzzed in.
The panels slide open to misted air carrying the fresh scent of lemon, lavender, and mint. Talon and I decline coffee, and in less than five minutes, we are escorted to a closed door down the hall.
It’s my first time on Friar’s turf, as he’d come to our offices for the original pitch. I prefer having the home-court advantage—my own equipment and space—but I’m not worried. Rather, adrenaline, like five shots of espresso, gives me an energizing jolt.
I look over at Talon. He winks and bumps my fist just as the door opens.
I make sure to pull myself up straight, walk with purpose, and smile confidently. A smile that freezes on my face when I see who’s standing amongst Friar’s executives around the oval boardroom table—J.D. FreakingStiles.
I can feel myself flush at being thrown off my game. Why does he keep showing up when I least expect him? And here, of all places, looking all too fine in a classic charcoal suit. It has to be custom-made to fit him so well. His crisp white shirt opened at the neck, emphasizes that sleek, black goatee and those dark, perceptive eyes.
“Jordyn. Welcome.” Brett Friar extends his hand in a hearty shake. A young, successful go-getter, I know by his reputation not to take his friendliness for granted.
“Thank you, Brett.” I set my bag down on the credenza and motion Talon forward. “It’s good to be here. You remember Talon Hunt.”
“Yes, of course.”
I miss their brief exchange while engaging in an eye battle with Stiles. As to be expected, he doesn’t register any surprise at my presence or any reaction at all—just that pointed stare, which says nothing but makes me feel everything.
“You’ve already met my executive team,” Friar says, dragging my gaze away. “Kent, Don, and Mandaline.”
After greetings echo around the room, Friar introduces Stiles, standing with his jacket open, his hands shoved in his front pockets, barely moving a muscle.
“Joining us is J.D. Stiles, a new member of the team. He’s my chief security consultant. Stiles, this is Jordyn Sinclair and her colleague, Talbot Hunt.”
I can feel Talon bristle beside me. “Talon,” I politely correct, although I’m hyperfocused on the man who could make Kiss ‘N Run an Olympic sport. “Mr. Stiles and I have actually met.”
“That’s right.” Friar snaps his fingers. “Through Mick Peters. That’s how I came to meet Stiles as well.”
“Ms. Sinclair.” He nods curtly as if less than a week ago, his hand hadn’t been between my legs.
Well, two can play that game. “Mr. Stiles, nice to see you again.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer, then turns to Talon and gives him a hardened once-over before taking his hand. “Mr. Hunt.”
“Let’s get started.” Friar claps in a chop-chop fashion. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“It’s preliminary,” I remind him, getting my bearings. “But I think you and your team will be pleased with what we’ve put together.”
“No doubt.” Friar takes a seat and leans back in his chair at the far end of the table with a direct view of the screen. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that.”
I don’t take his comment lightly. But feeling assured that we won’t disappoint, I step to the front of the room where a laptop is set up and connected to the projector.
Talon remains off to the side in a gesture that seems to be respectful of my role as the team lead. Patting myself on the back for including him, I click the mouse and watch the first slide with the Power Designs logo and presentation title appear. I keep track of all the versions, and this one, with the v.4 in the corner, tells me it’s an early draft. There’s no time for me to think about how that could have happened with Friar’s eyes boring down the table.
“My apologies; I sent Mandaline the wrong copy. But I have the correct one on a drive. It’ll only take a moment.”
Friar clicks his pen in rapid succession while I turn to my bag to get the drive. I feel my face heat—the pocket is empty. Two mishaps are more than a coincidence.Fucking Talon.
I can’t afford to even spare him an evil side glance. I have to somehow recover. “I must apologize again,” I say, sounding like a broken record. “Seems I don’t have it. I’ll call the office to get the presentation sent right over.”
“Jordyn,” Friar rebukes and taps a finger to his watch. “Time is money.”
“I realize that, and I’m sorry.” My pits are sweating, and I wish the hardwood beneath my feet would open right now and swallow me up. My reputation is on the line, and this is another humiliation in front of Stiles. Only this time, he hadn’t been the cause. My own stupidity in trusting Talon was to blame.
But Talon steps to my side as if saving the day. “No need to call. I brought an extra copy.” He hands me the USB, which, I can only assume, is the one he must have removed when I wasn’t looking. As if sharing the same thought, I notice the way Stiles is looking at Talon—like he could grind him into mincemeat.
I, too, want to beat that gloating grin off Talon’s face, but forced to remain professional, I manage to thank him and pull up the presentation.Phew.
