Nolan“Asshole I Somehow Still Want”Rhodes. Better known as Chief Creative Officer for Big Stream Marketing.
Black suit. Clean lines. Smirk that could melt steel.
And those fucking glasses.
Sleek, black-rimmed, perched on the bridge of his too-perfect nose. They have no idea the damage they’re doing to the female population.
I close the laptop with a snap just to get a grip.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve kissed this man. Felt his fingers inside me. His mouth on my neck. I’ve ground against him in a public bathroom like some unholy thirst demon.
And now I’m sitting here stalking his company website, pretending I didn’t ride that man’s thigh into another plane of existence.
I open the laptop again. This is fine. Totally fine. Just… professional research.
That’s what I tell myself as I scroll through the blog posts. They’re clever, creative, like everything else he touches. Most of them don’t have him in them. Just his work. His ideas. His vision.
Until I hit something older. Buried a little deeper. From last year.
A photo captioned:Nolan Rhodes enjoying the Christmas party with his girlfriend, Chloe Prescott.
I stop breathing. She’s beautiful. Movie star beautiful. With legs fordays and expensive hair that probably has its own agent. But the smile is brittle. Posed.
Still—there’s a familiarity to that caption. The name clangs around in my brain.
Chloe Prescott.
Chloe.
Chloe?
Oh, fuck. Chloe!
I click back to my messages. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll some more.
There.
Jackson?! His dirty dick is a perfect match for that rank ass pussy of yours, Chloe. Enjoy!
My stomach flips.
Carl texted her name.
Carl and Chloe.
Carl and Jackson.
It’s nothing. Coincidence. There’s a million Chloe’s in this world. Probably two million.
Back to the Big Stream team page.
Jackson Butler.
Account Manager.
Oh my god.
