But I won’t.
I can’t.
Not when she looks like that. Not when part of me wants to win her just as much as I want to win this deal.
And that, right there, is the real problem.
Shelby claps her hands. “Okay, no more sparring. You both have invites. Let’s drink.”
Three color-shifting Mirages land on the table. They shimmer like mood rings and smell like they were brewed in a cauldron.
“I took the liberty of downloading your recipe, and sent it to the bartender,” Shelby says. “Market research, obviously.”
“Careful, these will mess you up,” Rorie warns, eyeing mine like it’s a trap. “Make you do things you might regret the next day.”
“Is that a threat or an invitation?”
No answer. She eyes me as I take a drink.
It’s sweet, and citrusy with a strange little kiss of licorice at the end. A drink that sneaks up on you, sinks its claws in, and refuses to leave.
Like her.
“What’s in this?” I ask.
Shelby launches into a breakdown worthy of its own infomercial. Mezcal, dark rum, Velvet Falernum, a whisper of absinthe, lime, butterfly pea flower, champagne float, smoked glass.
I stop listening after “seductive and smoky” because Rorie is watching me like she’s daring me.
“Sounds mediocre.” I finish off the drink.
Rorie lifts hers, swirls it. “We’ll see how mediocre you think it is once it hits your bloodstream?”
And just like that, we slide into another round. Then another. Her knee brushes mine under the table again. And again.
Shelby gets louder. Rorie gets bolder, turning into a storm I want to chase.
And me?
I’m not getting reckless.
I’m gettingsure.
This is tension with teeth. I’m ready to risk it. Reputation, rivalry, restraint—whatever.
Rorie’s circling me, and I’m circling right back—with my eyes open and hands ready.
And then she decides to get feisty. Not the fun kind—the kind that ends with moaning and sweat. No, she brings up the goddamn campaign.
Awesome. Nothing gets me off like professional tension.
It’s fine. Totally fine.
“So,” Rorie says to me, spinning the ring on her finger, “what’s your play gonna be? Hashtag campaigns? Instagramfilters? A limited-edition candle that smells like Asher’s armpit?”
I take a sip. “You know that’d sell.”
“I’m sure it would,” Rorie replies. “But Cross doesn’t want trending. He wants timeless.”
