He hadn’t expected it to crack his composure.
But it did. A low laugh, rare and real.
She’d called it—named the energy humming between them with disarming ease.
She didn’t just see him.
She understood him.
In this world—his world—people wore masks. They smiled with teeth. Spoke in subtext.
But Arden…
She met him unarmored.
Matched him beat for beat.
He watched her too often.
His gaze lingered when it should’ve moved on.
And he didn’t care.
She didn’t hold this space with money or pedigree. She owned it with presence.
With earned confidence. With that unsettling, razor-sharp knowing in her eyes.
Even her voice posed a threat: smooth, teasing, just a second ahead of everyone else in the room.
He shouldn’t have wanted to close the space between them.
Shouldn’t have let her words land the way they did.
But when she arched that brow and murmured,“Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re playing favorites…”
It hit him square in the chest.
No touch. No invitation. Just precision.
She was playing with fire.
Worse. He was, too.
He made his rounds, spoke with VIPs, shook hands, answered questions.
But the whole time, part of him stayed with her. The tilt of her head when she laughed at something Marco said. The poised way she handled another demanding patron. The way the atmosphere shifted near her—electric, aware.
He met her gaze across the room. Something passed between them. What? He couldn’t say.
Her skill? Her defiance? The unraveling of every line he’d spent years drawing?
All he knew was: watching her behind his bar didn’t feel disruptive.
It felt inevitable.
And he wasn’t ready to look away.
His mother’s voice echoed; caution and criticism wrapped in polished ice.
