Noah’s smile fades slightly and he straightens his spine, stepping back to allow the darker man to stalk forward.
“Captain Hargrove, but you can call me Hale,” he greets us stoically. He must be allergic to smiling. “You’re late.”
He doesn’t just say it—he steps in.
Close enough that the air between us changes. Close enough that my body goes quiet, listening.
Then his hand lands at my lower back. Not a caress. Not gentle. A simple, unmistakable guide as he shifts me a half-step out of the bay’s path like he’s rearranging a scene that belongs to him.
It lasts one breath. Two.
And when he removes his hand, the absence feels… loud.
The words land heavier than they should.
Not because it’s unfair — it’s not — but because something in his tone curls low in my belly, sharp and commanding in a way that makes my skin prickle.
Interesting.
I don’t like being talked down to.
I like even less that a part of me responds to it.
I glance down at my watch. “Technically, we’re exactly forty-two seconds early. Perhaps your clock runs slow. We do appreciate the warm welcome, though.”
Noah makes a choked kind of noise.
The captain narrows his eyes slightly. I offer him my prettiest smile.
“My name is Lila Hart,” I start again. “And this is my partner-in-crime, Lou Giovani. We’re with Hartstrings PR.”
Lou and I decided that saying we’re with the company makes it sound like there are more than two of us. There aren’t, of course, but the entire point of our field is to know how to make others and ourselves look good.
At that moment, another tall man emerges onto the scene. He bursts through a heavy metal door on the far side of the space and jogs over, frowning down at his watch. I notice strange markings on his forearm when he does so. It looks like someone attempted to draw an anatomically correct frog on his light brown skin in green marker.
This man is leaner than Blondie and Broody, with stunning hazel eyes and black hair shaved close to his skull. He’s the shortest of the trio, but still definitely over six feet tall. Poor Lou, who has the misfortune of being pretty short, is probably going to develop neck pain from having to look directly up at all of them.
“Sorry, Cap,” the third guy says to Hale, clapping him on the shoulder and tossing a friendly smile in Noah’s direction. “Leo’s nanny was running late this morning.”
“Actually, you’re right on time,” I tell him, holding up my watch. “Literally eleven-fifteen on the dot.”
He grins and leans forward to offer me his hand. “Cool. Hi, by the way. I’m Evan Reyes.”
His gaze drops to my hand—still holding my iced latte—then to my fingers.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly, like it’s not a judgment, just a fact.
Before I can deny it, Evan reaches out and steadies the cup at the bottom, anchoring it with his palm.
Warm. Solid.
It’s a tiny touch. Professional. Harmless.
But my skin sparks anyway.
“Triple shot?” he murmurs, amused.
“Allegedly,” I whisper back, and his mouth quirks like he’s trying not to smile too hard.
