When I come, it’s with his name on my lips and his hands in mine.
And when he follows, it’s with a groan that sounds like surrender.
We lie tangled in the aftermath, skin damp, breath slowing, hearts loud.
His arm wraps around my waist. My fingers trace lazy circles over his chest.
“Still falling?” I ask, voice sleepy.
He kisses the top of my head. “Every second.”
“Tomorrow, we have to go back to being mortal enemies.”
The thought creeps in, cold, even as Nolan’s hands keep me warm.
“I don’t care if we win or lose,” he whispers into the curve of my neck.“Your firm deserves it more.”
“You’re still gonna bring your A-game though, right?” I tease, nudging him gently.
The corner of his mouth curves up, slow and sure. “Nothing less.”
CHAPTER 52
PITCHPOCALYPSE
NOLAN
The airinside the conference hall is a cocktail of nerves, ambition, and way too much perfume.
Every firm is locked and loaded, their top players flanking their team leads like knights guarding royalty. Except ours. Thatcher left the island abruptly. Said he had important business to tend to. Like this isn’t. No problem, he wasn’t contributing to anything anyway.
CrossMedia execs lounge in white chairs up front. Asher Cross is in the center, Shelby Davidson at his side, Celeste Monroe draped over a different chair, scrolling through her phone.
The energy shifts.
This is it.
The final day. The last chance. The moment everything we worked for either catches fire...or burns to worthless ash.
Across the aisle, Jeremy leans back in his seat, watching the stage with theatrical boredom, but his foot taps out a silent, jittery rhythm that gives him away.
Next to him, Maya sits stiffly, looking poised, polished, but even from here, I catch the slight tremble in her hand when she tucks her hair behind her ear.
I follow her gaze and find Asher flicking glances at her when he thinks she isn’t looking.
She’s doing everything she can to pretend he doesn’t exist. She’s poised. And fierce. Go her.
I turn my attention to my center of gravity. Rorie.
The second she moves into position at the podium, the whole world tilts a few degrees closer to her. She doesn’t strut or swagger. She doesn’t need to.
She stands there, clutching her notes, adjusting the mic with fingers that quiver so faintly only someone who knows her like I do would see it.
My heart punches my ribs. Not with nerves. With pride. She’s about to own this room—and she doesn’t even realize it yet.
I’m leaning forward, my elbows on my knees, not bothering to hide the stupid smile pulling at my mouth.
She’s going to be unforgettable.
