Our eyes lock.
Yeah, I’m fucked.
Not because she looks hot. But because my night just went from politely kissing Shelby Davidson’s ass to navigating the emotional equivalent of a landmine field in high heels after two cocktails.
Maya and Jeremy flank her again, laughing, carrying on.
Rorie falters. It’s barely a second, but it’s there, a tiny hesitation, a glitch in her perfect entrance because she’s realizing she walked into the middle of something unexpected.
To be fair, she did.
Her chin lifts, a little too high. It’s her tell. And it lights up something feral in my chest. I love it when she plays tough.
Shelby perks up beside me. “Oh my God, there’s Rorie Adams.”
I sip my bourbon like it doesn’t matter. Like my pulse didn’t just trip all over itself.
“She made those drinks for Asher.” Shelby goes on, cheerful andexcited. “Have you had one? The Mirage? Or the Titan? Obnoxiously good.”
“Nope.” My voice stays even. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”
Shelby, of course, waves her over.
Rorie hesitates, and I watch her weigh the scene with her chin at its most infuriating angle. She glides toward us.
Her blouse is doing things to my blood pressure. And her cleavage is a problem. Her legs? Worse.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to text you and set a date for drinks,” Shelby says. “I’m Shelby Davidson. Creative Director to Asher Cross.” She holds her hand out to shake.
Rorie takes her hand but her eyes are trained on me. “Shelby. Good toofficiallymeet you.”
“Rorie,” I say as evenly as I can manage.
She says nothing back.
Shelby beams. “Ilovedwhat you did at Crossfire. And those drinks! Titan is a banger, but that Mirage? High-key obsessed.”
“Thanks.” Rorie’s eyes bounce from Shelby to me. Then back again. “So…what are you two doing here? Together?”
The question is light, casual. She’s connecting dots.
But her dots are all wrong.
I can literally see the two emotions swirling in Rorie’s eyes right now.
Caution.
And jealousy.
Caution, because she’s wondering if I’m making a move, charming Shelby to get a leg up in landing the Cross account—making it another win snatched out from under her.
And jealousy, because she kissed me, and now I’m here sipping drinks with a beautiful woman who’s three hashtags and a filter away from viral. A girl, really—not a woman by my definition, she’s only twenty-three—but Rorie sees it. And she doesn’t like it.
Not that she’d ever admit that. Not even under torture.
Sitting back slightly, a lazy smirk tugs at my mouth. “Talking shop.”
Which is technically true.
