I smirk. “Oh, definitely a mark.”
Her steady eyes hold mine. “Good. I don’t do soft.”
Christ.
I lean in so our mouths hover, heat brushing heat.
A beat passes. Two.
“Am I interrupting?”
Fuck me sideways.
Asher Goddamn Cross.
She pulls back. Just an inch. But it might as well be a mile.
“Can I steal you away, Ms. Adams?”
My fists clench. Don’t say yes. Don’tfuckingsay yes.
“Absolutely.” Her lips curve.
“Game’s not over, Rhodes,” she says, stepping away. “Try not to lose track of what you really want.”
“I don’t intend to.”
She disappears into the darkened edge of the terrace with Asher, hips swaying.
And I just stand there.
Burning.
On my rooftop, I sink into a lounge chair, another bourbon in hand. I’m trying to outrun my own damn thoughts.
The amber in my glass catches the city glow, swirling in slow, lazy loops—like it’s got nothing better to do than keep me company.
The city lights glitter—a thousand tiny promises, sirens wail in the distance, tires screech against pavement. It’s all background noise, white static against what’s inside my head.
I should be focused on damage control. On the account. On the moves I need to make to keep Big Stream ahead. But instead?
I’m thinking abouther. The woman who walked into my night as a goddamn plot twist.
She didn’t just throw off my game, she took the entire board and flipped it over, then poured herself a drink and dared me to keep up.
And Ican’tstop seeing her.
That mouth. That fire. Those fucking eyes—frost cold enough to burn. She looked at me like she already had me by the balls… and she absolutely does.
I tip my glass back and swipe open my phone.
LinkedIn
There she is.
Rorie Adams. Brand Strategist. The Laurel Group.
The headshot is businesslike, professional, but the smirk ruins the illusion. Her smile says,I know something you don’t. And I’m not telling you shit unless you impress me.
