“You should join us for a round,” Shelby offers, patting the seat next to her.
Rorie glances at me. Then to her friends. Then back at Shelby. “Sure. Why not.” She slides into the seat, which is across from me. Her leg brushes mine under the table.
Not an accident.
She’s calm, poised, but there’s a current buzzing under her skin, making the tension between us is hot enough to warp metal.
She flips open a menu. She’s not reading. “So, is Big Stream’s hat officially in the ring? Or are you two…” Her gaze cuts to Shelby, pretending innocence. “Having a different kind of meeting?”
Oh, my little firecracker is fishing.
I stretch my arm along the back of the booth, casual on the outside. But inside, every cell is locked onto her.
Shelby cackles.“Oh my god!”she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Me andhim? Please. That’s comedy gold.”
Rorie’s eyebrows lift. “Is it?”
“He thinks I belong at the kiddie table,” she says.
“Because youbroughtsnacks to my keynote speech,” I reply.
“And you probably needed a nap after it, Boomer,” she shoots back. “Should I start calling you ‘Corporateasaurus’?”
Rorie chokes on a laugh she doesn’t bother hiding. My patience frays.
“So what does that make you, then?” she asks me, casually. “Professionally speaking.”
I smirk. “Unlucky.”
“Underestimating me,” Shelby says, all sing-song and sunshine. “As usual.”
“You make it easy.”
“Keep going and I’ll brand you your own adult diaper line,” she says sweetly. “I’ll even donate the proceeds to your retirement fund.”
Rorie snorts. Her eyes flit to mind and the temperature spikes again.
Shelby turns to Rorie. “Don’t you think Big Stream sounds like a frat house beer pong team?”
“Or a plumbing accident,” Rorie offers.
Shelby loses it. “Oh my god,yes. It gives ‘frat bro fell off a float mid-urination’ vibes.”
Rorie grins. “I saw a guy once at Mardi Gras piss off a balcony like he was auditioning for the Bellagio.”
Shelby gasps.“I was there!”
I drop my forehead into my hand. Great. They’re bonding.
“To Big Stream,” Shelby toasts. “May it flow strong and straight.”
“To Big Stream,” Rorie echoes, clinking her glass. “And may the PR team survive it.”
I watch her laugh at my expense, loose, unbothered. She tilts her head back and grins at something Shelby says, and it hits me like a sucker punch. The way her mouth curves, the way the light slides along her cheekbone, it all scrapes against something raw in my chest.
I still want her—badly, stupidly—despite the fact that she’s sitting across from me laughing like we’re not about to go to war over the biggest pitch of the year.
I should let her go.
