“I’m serious.” I lean forward. “When was the last time you let something happen? No five-year plan. No exit strategy. Just... mess and magic.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just sips her coffee and looks out the window like the answer’s buried somewhere in the skyline.
Finally, she says, “It’s not that easy.”
“Nothing worth doing ever is.”
Her eyes cut to mine, unsure.
So I reach into my back pocket and pull out the sleek black metal card. It catches the overhead light as I slide it across the counter, face-down.
Maya blinks at it. “What’s that?”
“Asher’s personal number. Direct. No handlers. No assistants. No publicists. Just him.”
She stares at it as though it might detonate.
“Maya,” I say gently. “No pressure. No games. Just... see what happens.”
Her hand hovers over the card like it’s burning. Her lips part, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she sighs, running a hand through her hair. “You’re really pushing this, aren’t you?”
“Only because you deserve someone who looks at you like you’re the best damn thing in the room.”
She huffs out a laugh. “And what about you? When are you going to take your own advice?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
She rolls her eyes. “Rorie, a guy has never looked at a girl the wayNolan Rhodeshas looked at you literally every night we’ve run into him.”
I laugh, but there’s a tightness in my chest at the mention of Nolan. “Yes they have.”
Maya lifts a brow.
I hold her gaze. “Asher Cross looks atyoulike that.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “That’s?—”
“Unexpected? Yeah, well, you should let yourself be surprised for once.”
Maya slides the card off the counter and her lips twitch.
“Good girl.”
My grip tightens around the lukewarm coffee as I turn for the door. I’ve got a meeting to survive.
Laurel doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
The moment I step into her office, she gestures to the chair across from her with the kind of pointed efficiency that makes me brace for a verbal beating. I’ve already prepared three different apology speeches and mentally drafted my resignation—just in case.
But instead of the tight-lipped scowl I expected, she’s smiling.
No—beaming.
“Well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour,” she says, folding her hands over her crossed knee. “Tell me, Rorie… do you always make a habit of rewriting the rules mid-game?”
I blink, caught completely off guard. “Uh… depends. How mad are we talking?”
She lets out a genuine laugh—an actual, from-the-gut laugh—and leans back in her chair like we’re not boss and almost-fired strategist, but two old friends catching up over brunch. Which, technically, we sort of are, if you count that she used to steal my mom’s hairbrush in college and once taught me how to use a tampon in the back of a Chili’s.
