My lips twitch. His eyes flicker to the movement for a half-second.
The dartboard is faded and crooked, the lighting overhead flickering. The scent of wood polish and spilled IPA strong in the air.
I take the first throw. Bullseye.
“Beginner’s luck,” Nolan mutters, stepping up.
He throws, hits a three.
“Did you mean to hit the wall, on the opposite side?”
“Just getting warmed up.”
We volley. Darts. Banter. Fire. The tension between us is tightening, threading through each quip like embroidery floss. And he watches me like I’m the riddle he’s dying to solve. The way I hold the dart, the way I tilt my head before I throw. Like he wants to memorize every movement.
“You always this intense?” I ask after my third bullseye.
He shrugs. “Only when I’m losing. Or when I’m trying to figure out how to impress someone I shouldn’t still be thinking about.”
My hand slips. The dart veers wide.
Nolan chuckles, the sound low and warm.
I keep my eyes on the board, ignoring the traitorous flutter in my chest. “So, who’s the unlucky girl?”
He doesn't miss a beat. Steps in close, his voice a low drawl that slides straight down my spine.
“I think you know.”
Lifting my chin, I force my voice steady. “Well, then you definitely shouldn’t. I still very much hate you.”
He smiles—not cocky, more like he’s okay being hated if it means being remembered.
“Good. Hate’s something. Means I’m under your skin.”
I scoff, turning to face him. “You’re more like a rash I can’t get rid of.”
He leans in, his breath ghosting my cheek. “Then stop scratching and admit you like the itch.”
Behind us, Jeremy groans. “For the love of margaritas, will you two just make out already or start throwing chairs? Either will suffice.”
Rishi raises his drink. “My money’s on chairs.”
Nolan’s still staring at me. That look in his eyes? It’s not a threat. It’s a challenge.
And god help me—I want to lose. But I don’t fucking like to lose.
Lifting my drink, I take a slow sip, and shrug. “You poached my clients and tried to set fire to my career. I’m not letting that slide just because your mouth got to wander somewhere it didn’t belong.”
“Poaching is a strong word,” he replies. “I prefer strategic acquisition.”
“Right,” I say, tilting my head. “I preferstrategic annihilation.But hey—semantics.”
He leans against the wall, suddenly serious. “How do we move on from Vanguard?”
The ember of heat I’ve been feeling for him flickers out.
“That wasn’t just a client to me. It was a year’s worth of trust-building, late-night pitch decks, and—hell—hope. And your billion dollar firm blew it up like it was just another line item by cutting your rates thirty percent.”
