Strawberry blonde hair slicked back into a glossy power bun, her phone clutched like it’s both a weapon and a lifeline. And she’s checking said phone like she’s waiting for Taylor Swift to personally summon her to dinner.
God, I hope she does so we can cut this short.
Shelby sets it down so she can stab a straw into the ice floating in her side water with practiced flair. She takes a long sip then moves back to her cocktail.
“I read your email,” she says, swirling the cotton candy in her drink. “Your ideas are strong, Nolan. I’ll give you that.”
Oh, well, thank fuck. Gen Z’s crown princess approves. Forget my years of experience—over a decade worth—my track record, or the fact that I’ve closed deals bigger than her online following. What really matters is thatShelby Davidsondeems my pitchstrong.
“I appreciate that.” I manage not to grit my teeth. “So, does that mean Big Stream has a slot?”
Shelby tilts her head, amused. Then she pats my arm—light, condescending. “You know, this feels a little one-sided. It’s like you’re courting me but forgot to bring flowers.”
I give her a smooth smile. “Would you settle for a steak dinner?”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
Right. Of course.
I check my watch. If I power through this last bit, I can still make it home in time to catch the final five minutes ofBachelor Barnand roast it in real-time with TF. Nothing like manufactured heartbreak and badly edited confessions to cap off the night.
“Look.” I lower my voice. “I know Asher has a lot of options. But this campaign? Big Stream can build it into something iconic. And if we’re at the table?—”
“Oh my God, stop.” She waves a manicured hand. “You’re pitching. Relax. This is happy hour, not Shark Tank.”
The server comes by, places a fresh cocktail in front of Shelby.
I lean back in my chair, forcing a chuckle. “Fine. No pitch. Just drinks and awkward small talk.”
Shelby’s eyes glitter with mischief. “Idolove awkward small talk with you, Nolan. Full confession, I honestly came for the free drinks. And to see you sweat a little.”
She snaps a photo of that free drink and then begins furiously typing what I can only assume is her latest caption.
“This drink has more fluff than my ex’s excuses. Ten out of ten would sip again. Hashtag sugar and spite. Hashtag networking but make it fermented. Hashtag she came she saw she sipped. And post.”
What a little bitch.
I’m about to ask if we can end this charade when the door opens behind her, and I freeze.
Rorie Adams walks in wearing a skirt that’s basically a suggestion, not a garment, and a dark green see-through top that short circuits my brain straight back to our kiss.
And my dick goes instantly, shamelessly, to prayer position.
She looks beautiful. Her skin glows like temptation incarnate, her cleavage catching the low light, and that sinful sliver of side boob should come with a security escort.
That woman is dressed to cause problems on purpose. Like she walked out of a fantasy and into my ruin. Confidence sprayed on, hips carved for chaos. And every single part of me—heart, brain, and dick—is volunteering as tribute.
Honestly? My soul’s packing a duffel bag and begging to go with.
She hasn’t seen me yet. Which gives me three seconds to get my shit together.
Three...
Two...
One…
She looks up.
