The Summit Club smells like expensive champagne and quiet power. Fifty floors up, the city sprawls below us in a glittering grid, and I'm nursing a club soda while reviewing talking points on my phone. The crystal glass is heavy in my hand, the kind of weight that screams money. Around me, conversations happen in hushed, confident tones—deals being made over thirty-year Macallan and handshake agreements worth millions.
Demographics. Engagement metrics. The Northstar renewal projections I've memorized down to the decimalpoint. Anything to keep my brain focused on work instead of—
“Ready to knock 'em dead, McKenzie?”
I don’t need to turn around. The voice—low, amused, devastating—is unmistakable.
I glance up. Garrett’s in a charcoal suit tailored within an inch of sin. He doesn’t look like a hockey player. He looks like the man who owns the team.
“You clean up nice, Sullivan,” I say, tucking my phone into my clutch. My voice sounds casual. My pulse does not.
He grins. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
That’s when I notice the tie. Silk. Navy with thin silver stripes—corporate trust colors. Probably Hermès, if my marketing-trained eye is right. And crooked enough to make my perfectionist brain twitch.
“Hold still,” I say before I can stop myself.
I step into his space.
The tie is warm with his body heat. He smells like sandalwood and something clean and sharp. Ice, maybe. My fingers shake as I slide the silk through the knot.
Don't let them shake. His shirt is ridiculously expensive—custom tailored, Egyptian cotton. This is one inch away from being an HR violation. Step back. Now.
But I don't step back. I smooth the tie down his chest, fighting every instinct in my body. His gaze drops to my hands. Then lifts.
“Thanks, Sloane.” His voice is rough, low enough that it hits something deep in my chest. “You always notice the details others miss.”
I finally look up and find his eyes dark, focused entirely on my face. Not on the room full of powerful people, notscanning for networking opportunities. Just me. The intensity steals whatever smart comeback I had ready.
“I—” A laugh bubbles from the main dining room, breaking the spell. “We should probably...”
“Yeah.” He doesn't move, and for a heartbeat, neither do I. “Probably.”
I flee to the bathroom.
The marble countertop is ice under my palms. I stare at my reflection—eyes too wide, pupils blown. My lipstick is flawless. My control is not.
This is how it starts.
A tie. A glance. A man in a suit who knows exactly how to look at you like you’re not invisible.
Sarah flashes in my memory—brilliant, confident Sarah. Right up until the day security escorted her out of the building, career destroyed, all because she let a beautiful man distract her for a split second.
You are not her. You will not lose everything for a man in a great suit.
I reapply lipstick with steady hands and go back to work.
Dinner is a masterclass in professional chemistry.
The Northstar execs are exactly what I expected—sharp suits, sharper questions, the kind of people who see dollar signs instead of game scores. Robert Blackwood, the senior VP, has the predatory smile of someone who's made his fortune turning sentiment into spreadsheets. Jennifer Walsh, their marketing director, dissects every proposal with surgical precision.
But Garrett and I? We're not just good together—we're devastating.
“The team chemistry this season has been exceptional,” Blackwood says, cutting into his dry-aged ribeye. “What's your take on the leadership dynamic, Sullivan?”
Garrett sets down his fork. Gives Blackwood his full attention.
“Leadership’s about trust,” he says, voice calm, measured. “About building systems where everyone knows their role. But real strategy comes from people like Sloane.”
