Possibly.
If you just wanted to bang her, you wouldn’t be texting me, asking questions you already know the answer to. You’d be working on your playbook. But you’re not. You’re hesitating.
Because she’s so deep under your skin, she’s practically part of your nervous system. And the second you touch her, REALLY touch her, you know damn well she won’t be easy to forget.
So yeah. Keep pretending.
Just don’t come crying to me when your whole emotional equilibrium goes up in flames.
Or you’re wrong, and I do just want to screw her.
Mkay.
Carl, honey…she’s going to get under your armor, and when she does, she won’t just mess with you—she’ll annihilate you.
And you know it.
You assume a lot about me.
I haven’t been wrong yet.
You’re annoying.
It’s my charm. But you’re vulnerable right now.
So what’s the play then?
That depends.
Do you want to win AGAINST her?
Or win HER?
Those are very different games, Romeo.
I stare at the screen. Her words hit like a steel-toed boot to the ego. Win against her or win her?
Shit.
That’s a heavy question for a guy who just wanted to flirt and vent.
I don’t do half-assed advice. I’m a full-ass commitment.
Before I cross the threshold toward Thatcher’s office, I double back and jab my head into the bullpen. “Rishi.”
He looks up from his monitor, chewing the end of a pen. “What’s up?” he asks, already wary.
“Thatcher. Now.”
Rishi doesn’t ask questions. Just grabs his notebook, mutters something to the intern about covering his meeting, and falls in step beside me.
“On a scale of one to scorched earth, how bad is this?” he asks under his breath as we approach the office.
“Let’s just say Jackson’s already been in there, and I’d bet half my net worth he poured gasoline on the entire conversation before striking a match.”
Rishi sighs. “Fantastic. Love a Monday roast.”
Thatcher’s door is already cracked open like an invitation to hell when Rishi and I arrive. We pause outside of it.
