Jeremy sips his drink audibly while Maya’s eyes bounce between us, that third drink is taking effect.
“Whoa,” Rishi raises his hands in mock surrender, “that was all original.” He taps his temple a few times, still grinning. “Straight from here.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “So, it’s pretty bold of you two to show up in my line of sight after today.”
Nolan almost smiles. Almost.
“Came over to compliment a worthy opponent and order drinks with embarrassing names.” He turns back to the bartender. “Make it four Flirtinis and one Dirty Misunderstanding.”
“I feel seen,” Jeremy says.
Rishi winks. “You should.”
Meanwhile, Nolan still hasn’t spoken. He stands there quiet, awkward, observing like he’s filing away every micro-expression for later use. It’s weird. And unsettling. His eyes keep drifting to me, but I refuse to look away.
Let him blink first.
Rishi follows my gaze, then sighs. “And this is Nolan Rhodes. Our agency’s closer. Human spreadsheet. Professional smolderer. And Chief Creative Officer.”
Nolan shifts, like he’s about to say something more—then doesn’t. Instead, he slides his hands into his pockets and just stands there, silent. Stiff. Weirder than before, somehow.
How is this guy their highest exec? Rishi carries on better conversations. At least he cracks jokes, charms the table, keeps everyone’s attention. Everyone except Nolan.
Who’s still not talking.
Still not smiling.
Just staring.
At me.
Hard.
It’s making me twitchy.
Heat simmers low in my chest. One part annoyance, two parts leftover disappointment from my loss today. And they’re all wrapped up in vodka.
Which has fully kicked in. Idon’twant them here. They could’ve stayed on the other side of the bar with their victory poses and overachiever jawlines.
But no.
Theyslitheredover, all faux humility and quiet arrogance, and I’ve had just the right amount to drink to let my bitch flag fly.
Nolan Rhodes is still eyeing me like he’s trying to solve for X.
So, I say, “Stare any harder and I’m invoicing you.”
Nolan blinks, finally snapping out of whatever analytical fugue he was lost in.
“Jesus, I’ve met statues with more game.”
“Are you always this prickly?”
Well, well, proof of life.
“Oh good—it speaks.” I arch a brow. “I was starting to think your jaw was decorative.”
He grunts.
