Cole raises an eyebrow, leaning forward.
“Well, damn, Travis. Congrats, I guess,” Cole says. “A Little like him? Can’t say I’m surprised—he’s got fire. But you gotta move careful. We don’t know his role in this yet. Is he a pawn, a player, or just clueless? Until we’re sure, you keep those feelings on a leash.”
I grunt, knowing he’s right but hating it.
“Yeah. He’s got me up, though,” I say, my voice low, loaded with caution. “That spark, his sassy attitude, the way he looks at me… it’s hard to stay sharp.”
Max laughs, clapping my shoulder. “Welcome to the Daddy trap, brother. Just don’t let it cloud your judgment. We’ve got a mission to run.”
I nod, the weight of it settling in.
Miles is not just a mission anymore—he’s under my skin, and that’s dangerous. But Cole’s right… until I know his true place in this mess, I can’t let my guard down.
The next morning, I stride into the Knox & Rain lobby, my fake ID clipped to my jacket, my cap pulled low but not enough to look suspicious.
The receptionist, a young woman with a tight bun and a bright smile, looks up as I approach. I flash a grin, channeling every ounce of charm I’ve got.
“Michael Scott, legal professor from upstate,” I say, my voice smooth, authoritative. “I’m here to meet with lawyers interested in guest lecturing for my program. No appointment, just hoping to catch someone free.”
Her smile widens, and she adjusts her glasses, clearly taken by the confidence I’m projecting.
“Oh, that sounds interesting!” she says. “Let me check with the office manager to see who’s available. Please, take a seat.”
“Thanks, appreciate it,” I say, nodding as she stands and heads toward a back office. The second her back’s turned, I move, slipping past the desk and through the double doors to the main office area.
The hum of the open-plan space hits me—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, lawyers hustling between desks piled with files.
It’s controlled chaos, and I whip my hat off and blend in, just another suit in a sea of them. My shoes are silent on the carpet, my eyes scanning for Miles’ desk as I weave through cubicles, keeping my head down but my senses sharp.
I spot Miles near the back, his head bobbing adorably as he types, his screen glowing with what looks like client records.
I’m about to head his way when movement catches my eye—Kyle Knox, stepping out of a glass-walled office, his tailored suit screaming money. He’s heading straight for Miles, his stride too purposeful for a casual chat.
My gut twists, and I duck behind a partition, pretending to study a bulletin board covered in case notes. I’m close enough to watch, far enough to stay unnoticed.
Kyle leans against Miles’ desk, his voice low, his smile too familiar.
He looks up, his expression guarded but not hostile, and they start talking, their heads close, the conversation private, intimate even.
Knox touches Miles’ arm, just a brush, and he doesn’t pull away. Miles giggles, flutters his eyelashes, and the conversation continues apace. A pang of jealousy hits me like a fist, sharp and hot, bordering on anger.
Is he playing me?
Feeding Kyle info about me, the Guard, our deal?
The thought burns, and I clench my fists, my nails biting into my palms. I picture him this morning, soft and trusting after story time, and now here he is, cozy with the guy I’m betting is neck-deep in cartel shit.
My heart’s pounding, and for a second, I want to storm over, yank him away, demand answers. I’m losing my cool, and it could be dangerous. I want to crash their little party and end this now.
But I don’t.
I’m better than that.
I take a slow breath, forcing the anger down, and slip back through the office, weaving past cubicles until I’m out the double doors again. The receptionist is still gone, and I’m in the elevator before anyone clocks me.
Outside, the city’s morning rush is in full swing—cars honking, pedestrians weaving—but I’m blind to it, my mind spinning. I lean against a streetlamp, pulling my cap lower, and curse under my breath.
“Get a grip, Travis,” I mutter.
