Beneath that is a bullet-point warpath of wins. She’s not just talented. She’slethal.
I flip over to Facebook. Locked tighter than a vault. Figures. But there are a few public photos.
In one, she’s mid-laugh at some networking event, fingers curled around a glass of champagne. Another in front of a stack of books, head tilted, mouth curled, eyes lit with mischief. That grin is giving off the vibe:I will flirt, fight, and emotionally destroy you all before brunch.
Instagram is where things get personal.
Coffee shops. Skylines. Sunlight slanting through tall windows. There’s a softness here, but no softness aroundwhoshe is. Her world is controlled. Gorgeous, but distant.
No family. No holidays. No birthday brunches or sleepy-eyed selfies with a sibling.
Just her.
And one strange photo from three months ago—a weathered compass sitting in an open palm. No caption. No context. But it sticks with me.
The post isn’t random. It means something.
What?
Estranged? Grieving? Guarded?
Whatever it is, she’s not offering it freely. Which makes me want it even more.
I scrub a hand down my face and shake my head like that’ll do a damn thing. I’m spiraling.
And Ilikeit.
I flip open my texts. Pull up Tammy.
I need a full work-up on Rorie Adams from The Laurel Group.
Like CIA-level deep dive. Work history. Prior deals. Mentor names. If she owned a hamster in the third grade, I want its dental records.
Also, find everything you can on Jackson. Go all the way back to his Pre-K days if you have to.
Already on it, Jason Bourne.
I toss the phone onto the side table, take another sip of bourbon, and stare out across the rooftops. A man smokes on a nearby balcony. A couple argues on another. Life moves on.
Like Chloe.
She’s probably hanging curtains at Jackson’s place right now, nesting in her new betrayal.
Me?
I’m here. Stalking a woman because she looked at me like I was both the enemy and the prize.
Is it too soon? Is it just my ego talking? Or is this the first thing that’s made me feelanythingsince I caught Chloe cheating?
If it’s going to be someone…
It might as well be Rorie Adams.
The bourbon sits heavy on my tongue as I drain the glass and set it aside. My skin itches with restless energy, my mind electric with the weight of those lips, her voice, her fucking eyes.
I shift in my chair, legs stretched out, but tension’s coiled low in my gut now—tight, relentless.
I shouldn’t.
